


The West Coast Two-Step

by aeroport_art



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 1880s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Angsty Schmoop, F/M, Guns, Jealousy, M/M, Murder Mystery, San Francisco, badassery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>1888, Reno, NV.</i> Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as one of those dreaded WIPs which I personally avoid like the plague, but you guys perseveared! The continuous support was seriously indispensable, so thanks to everyone who's been following along chapter by chapter. Special thanks to my amazing betas: [oxoniensis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe), a fucking sublime writer who always finds time to nurture others and, by extension, the GK fandom. alethialia, you give the sparkliest, most thoughtful commenty EVER, and you have no idea how much fun you made this whole process for me! I find myself loving the characters more and more with each insight that you give. As for the hawk-like [puckling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/puckling/pseuds/puckling), BABY. You totally deserve showers of gold and rainbows and gosh, at the very least, a bomb-ass brunch on me when we finally get together :D Thanks for getting into this fic with a sledgehammer, because without it I'd be posting a sub-par product, so thank you thank you and rosy kisses.

It's high noon. 

Outside, the sun's beating down on the scorched earth with the blistering heat of a prairie fire and, Lord Almighty, it ain’t even July yet.

What it _is_ , however, is Washoe County. Here on the western border of Nevada, there ain’t green for miles but the prickly skins of cacti and brush—no humidity for at least ten times as far. Here in Washoe, a man makes do.

Inside a small, local saloon in Reno on the corner of Peavine and Third, Ray mops his brow with a soaked kerchief. 

"This shit is unreal. How're we supposed to work in this Satanic level of temperature? Ain’t gonna be any bodies by the time we get back on scene, just lumps of coal baking in the sun. And tell me, Brad. How are we supposed to identify lumps of coal?” Ray scratches his nose, winces. “Fuck, I’m peeling like a fucking tomato."

Brad reaches over to paw down the brim of his deputy's ten gallon. "Shut your fuckin' trap, Ray. That's what the hat on your worthless head is for, you gin-snorting, mama-fucking waste of a space."

Deputy Person slouches deep in his chair, crosses his arms and pouts overtly. Mutters under his breath, "Yeah well, at least I _got_ a mama to fuck."

Brad handily shoves the side of Ray's head, readying his tongue for another acerbic jibe when the _whuff-whuff_ of saloon doors swinging open captures his attention. Brad looks up.

A man's silhouette appears in the entryway, backlit by the brightness of white-hot street behind him. Brad squints, waiting.

Brad knows every coot who frequents this joint. Today, there's him and Ray, imbibing their liquid lunch while Walt takes over patrol of the main drag for an hour or so. Hunched in the corner is Tennessee Jones, avoiding his old lady like always, and the rest of the meager noontime patronage consists of a couple of kids—Bobby Jameson and barber Phil's youngest boy Abel, playing cards when they oughta be learning their letters at the public schoolhouse.

This silhouette at the door—ain't no figure Brad recognizes. So he sits up and pays attention.

The man slowly saunters in. With the motion, the sun recedes behind him and his face pulls free from the shadows, revealing a dusty, unlined face. Hell, forget _man_ —kid looks no older than nineteen, twenty tops.

He walks up to the bar, where saloon-keeper Doc Bryan wipes down the already gleaming counter.

"Water, please," the stranger asks politely.

Doc pauses, levels his gaze, then tucks his towel into the back of his apron and moves to get an empty glass from the rack. So avidly does the kid watch Doc fetch his water, he hardly notices the gaze of the entire saloon on his back.

Doc hands over a pint glass filled with clean water. Cup hardly hits the woodtop before kid's gulping it down like he ain't had anything to drink in weeks. Well, who knows—maybe he hasn't.

Brad doesn't even pretend to be discreet as his hand roves down to the peacemaker strapped to his thigh. Strangers don't deserve the benefit of doubt…not even harmless-looking ones.

The kid finishes his drink and plunks it to the wood, breathing in wetly. Doc automatically goes to refill the cup.

As he's pouring, the stranger asks, "What’s this place called?"

Doc looks up over his pitcher and replies steadily, "This establishment, you mean? Or are you asking about our little town here?"

Brad sees the kid flush at the back of his neck. "That obvious, am I?"

"Just the accent," Doc states. "Got a bit of Yank in you."

"Maryland, actually." The kid takes his cup and drinks some more, before stopping to add, “But I know this is Reno. I can find my way around a map. I’m asking about your saloon here. "

Doc's about to answer, Brad can tell, but he's had enough of the small talk. He pushes back his chair with a loud scrape of wood, making his presence known, and answers simply, "Mathilda."

The kid swivels his head around and their eyes catch, wary gazes locked on each other as Brad walks over with long, deliberate strides. En route, young Jameson hastily scoots his chair in to let Brad pass, letting the playing cards slip forgotten from his hand.

Brad gets to the bar, stops short in front of the stranger who regards him unflinchingly. "Mathilda," the kid repeats.

Brad's close enough now to turn around and prop his elbows on the counter beside him, leaning back as he introduces himself. "Brad Colbert." He touches the underside of his Stetson with a casual finger.

" _Iceman!_ " Ray calls from across the room. 

Brad twitches, but otherwise remains impassive as he adds, "And I know you know already, but proper introduction: you're in Washoe County's one-and-only Reno. Population four thousand, and home to the dullest lot of lawmen west of the Mississippi.” Ray makes a wounded noise from somewhere.

The stranger tilts his head back and drains the rest of his water. Brad's eyes slide down, following the bobbing up-and-down motion of his Adam's apple. When the stranger resurfaces, the bright red of his moist lips contrasts with the dusty film that covers the rest of his face, his clothes. "I'm Nathaniel Fick," he says as Brad's eyes snap back up, "but call me Nate." He extends a hand.

Brad just looks at the proffered hand before asking point blank, "Why are you here?"

Nate clears his throat. "Business. Just passing through."

"You know, if you're headed West anyway, you'd do well to leave before sundown. Sure picked a day to come visiting—some bad business went down this morning. Town could get ugly by nightfall."

"Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment," Nate says with the first hint of a smile playing at the edges of his lips, "But you don't have to worry yourself over my hide."

"Is that so?" Brad asks with a smirk.

"Seriously, kid," Ray suddenly cuts in, making himself known in the only way Brad's deputy can. "You're like what, twelve years old?"

Nate's brow draws down and Brad leans back on the counter, keen on watching Ray embarrass himself in front of this fresh-faced newcomer. 

"Whatever," Ray continues. "However old you are, you talk like you jus' _begging_ to be stung in the ass with a forty-five cal'. Walking all upright like you got a stick up your ass, fresh off the railroad, all loaded with money and shit. If I were you, I'd steer clear of a town full of scumbag frontiersmen still riled up from a morning shootout, unless you get your rocks off on a bunch of guys jumping you. But hell, if you're that hard up for attention, there are other ways to get it, if ya know what I mean." Ray pauses. "I mean paying for it."

Brad raises an eyebrow at that last addition. Ray says defensively, "What? You can get _anything_ at Dirty Birdy."

To his credit, Nate listens to Ray's verbal diarrhea with no more reaction than the thinning of his lips. Nate finally replies, "I'm only going to repeat myself once." He turns to Brad with a significant look. "You don't have to worry about me. And neither does your wife."

That catches him by surprise, and Brad can't help the grin spurred out of him. Ray looks at him like he’s grown another head, but the low chuckle that Brad grants Nate is completely deserved.

Nate's green eyes are trained on him in return, and the genuine smile quirking his lips makes Brad feel inordinately pleased. Brad explains, "This loose-lipped retard is my Deputy Sheriff, Ray Person."

Nate's smile dims.

"Sheriff?"

"Yeah," Brad says, reaching into his breast pocket to show his nickel badge. It’s labeled “High Sheriff”, followed by Washoe County and his license number. He doesn't like wearing it on his chest like some shiny trophy—it's redundant. Kind of hard to miss a 6'4" cowboy whose business is to know everyone else's business. Sure as _hell_ impossible to miss Deputy Person, who obliges himself to Brad's side, steady and constant as a stray mutt you fed once and can’t shake.

"Well, Sheriff," Nate says, wiping a hand over his face. "I'm afraid I don’t have a choice but to stop through Reno. Need to replenish some supplies, and my bay hasn't had a proper shoeing in months." He reaches down towards his hip and there's a split second where Brad's fingers twitch for his holster, but the kid ain't smart enough to keep a gun on him and the loud jangling of coins dispels any remaining doubt. Nate pulls out a couple coppers to tip Doc for the water.

The kid's obviously looking to leave, so Ray moves aside. Brad, however, pulls his weight off the counter and crosses his arms over his chest.

"I wasn't kidding about Reno being dangerous at night," he says. "The town gets rowdy when there’s a fight, and the one this morning was a doozy. Three cold bodies ain’t nothing to sneeze at."

"No, it’s not," Nate agrees. Something flickers in his eyes, but vanishes before Brad can make anything of it.

Brad continues, "If you need a place to stay for the night, there’s a hotel over in Truckee twelve miles west of here. Should be quiet there. We’re headed in that direction, anyway."

Beside him, Ray perks up. "Yeah, we can escort you!"

Nate clams up again. "I’ve got a hotel here, already," he insists.

Brad knows when he's lost a battle. Nate's jaw is set, belying a stubborn clench of teeth. His hackles are raised and unarmed or not, Nate looks ready to scrap his way out of Mathilda if need be.

Brad lifts both hands in surrender. Doesn't move aside, though—just lets Nate shoulder between him and Ray, his chest dragging against Brad's as he squeezes past.

Nate goes straight out the way he came, doors swinging in his wake.

The room stays paused for a breath, but soon exhales into low activity as the patrons at Mathilda return to their drinks and cards. Doc goes to rinse out the empty water glass.

Brad checks his fob watch, suddenly antsy to get back to work. "C'mon, Deputy," he says, feeling anticipation build up the way it always does before a good, tough case. "We have a long day ahead of us."

\-----

By the time Brad and his men get back on scene, they’re eight miles west of the Reno border.

Brad spits on the dirt, rounding up to the quivering greenhorn before him. "Who in the good Lord's name told you to _move the bodies?_ "

"I'm sorry, Sheriff. It's just—the chief said we had to get them out of the sun. Said they'd start to stink up."

Brad just barely manages not to wring the neck of the officer quaking before him. 

Hell, he oughta be used to it by now, anyway. Working with the city police—with their brick-headed, cretinous chief of police, to be exact—is an absolute exercise in restraint.

"Look, just—" Brad pinches the bridge of his sunburnt nose. It stings a little. "Get out of my fucking sight."

The kid skedaddles, and when Brad opens his eyes again he's looking at nothing but some brush and dirt, dried with blood where two bodies were found that morning. 

Damn it, the area’s scuffed all to hell now, sand tossed every which way from Schwetje’s men dragging the corpses off. Now there’s no fucking way to tell who died where, or whose blood is whose.

Luckily, Brad and his men were thorough during the initial survey. Between all their recollections, they’ve been able to piece together a rough string of events.

Brad squats down in front of the site and shuts his eyes, invoking the morning’s tableau.

Two of the bodies were found next to each other, one guy nailed with two rounds to the stomach, the other sporting a head shot. Can’t tell if they were killed by the same hand though—not until the bullets get extracted for comparison.

Regardless, the two men were pitted against a third, whose body was found nine yards away, bled out from an impressive tally of eleven shots to the body.

Three corpses total. All white males in their late twenties or early thirties, and all dressed in dry goods Brad recognizes from various stores around town. 

That’s good news. These men were locals—usually are, morning shootouts, making it straightforward enough to ID them. A little asking around town should have them pegged within a day or two.

A noise interrupts his train of thought and Brad opens his eyes, seeing nothing but desert sky, desert sun.

“Shit, dog,” a voice says from behind and Brad looks over his shoulder. It’s Espera. “You believe this shit? Eleven shots, man. _Eleven._ “

Espera—better known as just ‘Poke’ for reasons that really shouldn’t be repeated in polite company— circles around Brad, blocking the sun with his shadow. Brad stands up.

“Man, you white boys sure know how to fuck shit up,” Poke says. “Gotta respect.”

“It’s an important skill,” Brad agrees.

“Then again, this ain’t over yet,” Poke says, turning his head to look at the tremendous puddle of dried blood from afar, where the third body lay. Beside it, a set of footprints, inked by blood, trail away into nothing. “Who knows? Maybe it was a Chinaman who got away.”

“Could’ve be a Mexican,” Brad replies. Poke sniffs loudly, but he’s smiling as they settle into companionable silence, shoulder-to-shoulder.

A sudden, spirited hoot echoes through the dry air and Brad and Poke both turn their heads to meet it. Ray and his spotted Appaloosa can be made out through the heat rising from the baking earth, cantering in like a mirage.

Brad stands up, pulls his Stetson down to shade his eyes.

" _Whoo-whee_ , Sheriff!” Ray shouts, pulling up in a spray of dirt. “Wait till you see what Walt and I scrounged up." He dismounts and bounces over like he got a bug in his pants. 

"You're gonna love this, guys," Ray chirps. "You'll want to kiss your old pal Ray-Ray when you see this. Big ol' wet one right on the lips."

"Ray—”

"Just look!" Ray thrusts a folded up kerchief up under Brad's nose. "We found it ditched under a buckhorn, 'bout a mile east of here."

Brad gingerly pulls back one of the corners and the fabric drops to reveal the varnished, walnut grip of a revolver. Curious, Brad puts his palm out and Ray drops the gun into it.

The metal’s warm. Brad tests the weight in his hand, finding it heavier than his preferred six-shooter. He thumbs the hammer down, hears it click, then releases it, all under the silent observation of Poke and Ray.

" '75 Army Outlaw," Brad finally intones. He pushes the cylinder out with his thumb and looks down the barrel. No bullets are loaded, but it's easy enough to tell, ".45 caliber."

Ray leans in eagerly. "Good shit, right?"

Brad swings the cylinder back shut with the snap of his wrist. He smirks. " _Very_ good shit. See how the barrel's real short?"

"Modified. So what?" Poke asks.

Brad makes a soft tut-tutting noise, wagging the gun side-to-side like an admonishing finger. "No, my friend. This gun comes straight from the manufacturer, no modifications. It was a special edition five-and-a-half inch barrel, released by Remington during the winter of ’84. It’s a good gun, but she didn’t do so well against the Colt that came out in ’86. She got discontinued real quick.”

Ray blinks at him doubtfully. "Homes, you need to get out more." Beside him, Poke stifles a snort.

It doesn’t faze him. Brad responds, “Regardless of what my comprehensive knowledge of firearms may or may not reveal about my shortcomings in conforming to society’s expectations of ‘getting out more’, at least I’m earning my keep.” He stops, unable to help a feral smile from escaping. “Think about it, gents. How many men do you think there are, walking around Reno toting this particular gun?”

Ray's eyes slowly dawn and he says, reverently, "Well, damn. Looks like we got ourselves a real lead, h'aint we?"

Over Ray's shoulder, a movement catches Brad’s attention. It’s Walt coming towards them, his unruly blond hair catching the sun as he trots over on his chestnut gelding. Walt straightens up in his seat, raising his arm to wave.

Brad turns to Ray. "Tell Walt he's getting a kiss from me. Big ol' wet one, right on the lips."

"Hey, we found the gun together!"

Brad smirks in response and walks away, taking the Outlaw with him.

They’ve done all they could on site, and it’s about time he goes back to the tent to pack up. It’s just a matter of letting the evidence speak for itself now. Gun especially—if Brad follows the Outlaw, he’s bound to dig up something about the guy who’d left the shootout alive.

Sun’s getting lower in the sky, and shops will be closing up in a few hours. His team will tidy up the site, bringing the evidence home as they all prepare for the long push through the night.

Reno’s a tough place to corral on any given day—yet more so in the aftermath of bloodshed. Sometimes it seems pointless to try and govern the laws of natural selection, but Brad likes to think what he’s doing isn’t completely meaningless. Not everyone can defend themselves in the midst of anarchy, and it don’t seem right to him that they should.

He’s suddenly reminded of the newcomer who came into Mathilda during lunch.

Brad arrives at the tent, greeting his horse with a pat on the neck before pausing with one hand on the knob of the saddle.

Fick, wasn’t it? That’s right. Nathaniel Fick.

_Call me Nate._

Brad wonders if he should check on the kid this evening. While he’s got his fair share of children already—thinks fondly of Ray, Walt, and Trombley who’s out for a couple weeks taking care of his newborn—what’s one more rear end to cover? He’ll be patrolling the town anyway, might as well make sure Nate lasts the night.

Under his hand, his mount fidgets for acknowledgement and Brad smiles, shushing him as he unties the lash. He sticks the Army Outlaw into the back of his jeans and hoists himself up onto the saddle for the ride back to Reno.


	2. Chapter 2

Nathaniel Fick turns out to be tougher to track than Brad would've reckoned.

Now, in his defense, Reno's no small pond. Biggest town in Washoe County in fact, sprawling four miles across with more shops and saloons than you can shake a stick at.

Don't matter _how_ big a place is though, Brad's got a reputation to maintain. Ain't no one squirrely kid gonna fuck that up.

" 'Bout twenty years old, goes by Fick? Green eyes, short hair like mine." Brad waits as the gun shop owner, Percy Grant, folds his arms in thought and teeters back and forth on his heels. He looks like a bowling pin when he does that, and the fierce look of concentration on his face is comical.

Well, he can’t blame him. Brad’s been grilling the guy for a good hour or so about the case, though not with nothing to show. Turns out the three bodies from the shootout were real regulars at this gun shop, which ain’t a huge surprise as Grant’s Arms & Ammunitions is the best place in town to get outfitted.

Within minutes, Percy had identified the victims as John Marlon (bullet between the eyes), Georgie Brown (two slugs to the gut), and Bob Raleigh (gunned down eleven times over), just from looking at their guns and hearing Brad’s verbal descriptions.

Done and done, with time to spare. As long as Brad gets back to the station for the meeting at sundown, he might as well use this spell to scratch that Nate-shaped itch he got under his skin.

"Talks with a dude accent,” Brad supplies when it’s obvious Grant’s having a hard time recalling any such patron. “He's from Maryland."

"Oh, right!" Grant snaps his fingers. "Clean-shaven, kinda yay-high?" Not being especially blessed with verticality, he has to stretch to put his hand up to Brad's eye-level.

"That's him," Brad says encouragingly. "When'd he come through here, you remember?"

Grant hems and haws for a bit, musing about how he gets a lot of traffic after gunfights like the one that morning. "A lot of folks like to load up after a duel or brawl breaks out in their backyard," he says with a chuckle. "Can't keep track of all them nervous cowboys."

"But you remember Nate Fick," Brad presses. "Did he say anything about what hotel he’s staying at?" There’s something like twenty or thirty boarding rooms in Reno, and Brad can hardly check in on all of them.

"I gotta say, Sheriff. I don't remember him all that much. Just that he passed through."

There must be something in Brad's expression, as Grant quickly adds, "But you know, I can tell you about the job he had me do. I always remember the equipment, 'specially nice equipment like the holster he brought in.”

Brad frowns. Nate didn’t even have a gun on him when they were at the saloon. What the hell use would he have for a holster?

The shopkeeper continues, eyes looking skyward as he strains to remember. “The buckle on the belt was broken, which he had me replace, but the rest of it was still in darned fine shape. Nice quality leather, good stitching, the works. I mean, it was worn pretty thin on the back of the bag, but you could tell it’s because he’s been wearing it for awhile."

Okay, so Nate owned a holster. That doesn’t really tell him anything. “Did you see what kind of gun he had?”

"No gun," Grant says decisively. When Brad responds with a blank stare, Grant suggests weakly, “I would’ve noticed. Maybe he left it with his horse?”

Bullshit. Nobody with the slightest hint of self-preservation leaves their gun unattended in their fucking horse pack. Nate might’ve been young, but he didn’t seem stupid.

Grant shrugs helplessly.

Brad sighs. No use milking a dry cow. “Thanks, Percy.”

They shake hands and Brad turns to leave, but just before he gets outside, Grant calls after him.

"You know, Sheriff, maybe I can't tell you where that Flick boy—"

"—Fick."

"—where _Fick_ is staying the night, or what model gun he’s got, but there was something that stuck out to me."

Brad steps back inside, letting the door fall shut with a jangle of the cowbell. “And what’s that?”

"The way people use their equipment shows a lot. When you been around these things long as I have, you'd pick it up too. That holster, you take one look at the interior and you can tell he’s been keeping a short-barrel in there for at least a few years."

"Short barrel," Brad repeats. “We talking derringer short or what, Percy? I need a little more than that.”

“Derringer? Hell, he ain’t a _woman,_ is he?” Grant laughs. “Just short like, I don’t know, four or five-inch barrel. There’s always a groove in an old holster where the front sights have dug in, and this groove stopped pretty high. Shorter than your peacemaker, anyhow.”

Brad feels an odd sensation creep up on him, something niggling at the back of his mind that he can’t quite place. Ain’t nothing Percy can help with, though, so Brad tips his hat in thanks and exits the shop.

\-----

Brad spends the rest of the waning day showing the Outlaw around town, trying to see if anyone recognizes it or its owner. Funny how things work—wasn’t but a cakewalk to identify the morning’s three victims, but when he’s got an obvious lead like a one-of-a-kind revolver ditched near a town full of trigger-happy, wannabe firearm aficionados, ain’t nobody even recognize the model all of a sudden.

At the end of the day, Brad meets up with his team at their single-story office on Ralston and Fifth, in the northwestern side of town. 

Inside, they crowd around the big, square table used for debriefs. Brad shares what he discovered from Percy that afternoon and methodically collects everyone’s contributions as they go through the next day’s agenda.

Doc Bryan—same Doc who runs Mathilda, ‘cause everyone out West wears multiple hats to pitch in—already categorized the bullets found in each corpse. Marlon and Brown were indeed killed by the same gun, while Bob Raleigh’s eleven bullets came from three different sources.

Rudy, a broad-shouldered deputy with a penchant for showing off his preposterous physique, identified the victims through his own means, as did Poke. They each have their own leads to follow. 

The sky darkens outside their windows as the meeting progresses, which Brad eventually winds down by instructing Walt to begin interpreting the evidence into a scenario, complete with suspects, motives, and theories on what exactly went down that morning. Walt pales a little when he hears Brad wants a report by sun-up, but he’ll rise to the task. Always does. 

In the meantime, Ray’s gonna hold down the fort during the week, keeping watch over downtown while the rest of them work the case.

“That’s all for now, gents,” Brad says, leaning back from the table which is now littered with maps, pencils, and a few tins of dip. “We got a hot case to cool down, maybe chase some of those loose ends that got away, but for tonight, let’s just deal with the fallout. Y’all know where you need to be. Let’s make some money.”

A collective _yee-haw_ signals their departures. Most of them leave the station but Brad stays behind for a bit, tidying up the area and answering Walt’s straggling questions before he finally heads out to start patrol.

\-----

When Brad steps foot outside the ground’s still emanating heat like coals, but at least the sun’s gone. Brad flicks his Stetson back, grateful for the fresh air that greets him.

He strides down the empty alley on his way to the stable, path wanly lit by the half-moon that hangs in the sky like a lamp. The wide entrance of the stable looms up along one side and he turns into it. 

Brad’s horse, Hummer, is right at the front, but even with the light filtering in from the entryway his dark, chocolate coat blends seamlessly into the shadows. The whites of his eyes stand out like porcelain.

Brad approaches, stepping on a patch of sand with a crunch that startles his horse into a whicker.

“Shh—shh,” Brad murmurs, palms facing out as Hummer anxiously thrashes his head side-to-side. “S’just me. Your old pal Brad-Brad.” He pauses at the words that done come out of his mouth, then curses Ray for his infectious retardese.

“Brad-Brad, huh?”

Brad whirls around. His Colt’s safety-off and pointed in the direction of the voice, faster than the time it takes Rudy to get half-naked in public.

“That’s not very friendly,” the voice rings out, and Brad could just be hearing things but…

Across the dusty alleyway, Nate shoulders off the building at his back and walks forward, hands in his pockets. He stops just a stone’s toss away from the end of Brad’s raised gun.

Nate looks up, the brim of his ten-gallon lifting until his face is bathed in moonlight. “I’m twenty-six, by the way. You've been defaming me all day, Sheriff, telling strangers I ain't old enough to buy a legal drink on my own.”

Brad kicks the safety back on and drops the Colt into the holster at his thigh. His lips feel dry. 

Maybe he’s spent the better part of the sun-scorched afternoon searching out this kid’s scrawny ass for no real reason other than to placate his own curiosity, but hell if he can think of a single thing to say to him now, other than:

“What’re you doing here?”

Nate chuckles, the sound echoing down the empty alleyway. “I think you have something of mine.”

Behind Brad, Hummer stamps his foot impatiently. Brad touches him lightly on the nose to quiet him, eyes never leaving Nate’s, then steps out of the stable to meet him in the street. He makes sure to keep a safe distance though, unsure of what Nate wants from him.

“So what’ve I got that’s yours?” Brad asks cautiously.

Nate’s eyes flick down, hovering around Brad’s waist for a long moment before lifting back up to lock on Brad’s intent gaze. 

Nate replies, levelly, “My gun.”

\-----

Brad freezes in place while Nate blinks at him slowly. With pale skin glowing under the half-moon and clean, boyish features that simply don’t come around the frontier nary ever, it’s highly possible that this Nate before him is just a heat-induced hallucination.

“I’m sorry,” Brad says. “Think I heard you wrong.”

“Well, what did you hear me say?” Nate comes in close, knocking the toes of their boots together. All right, so not a hallucination. 

Brad slowly replies, “I heard you say…that I have your gun.” He doesn’t back away from Nate’s crowding. Refuses to let any weakness show.

“Then there ain’t nothing wrong with your ears, Sheriff.”

Brad feels a chill slink down his spine. The only guns he got on him are his trusted Colt, the hidden Pocket Navy strapped to his left calf…and the ’75 Army Outlaw.

The gun— _Nate’s_ gun—suddenly feels heavy against Brad’s lower back, where it’s tucked into his waistband.

He knows it’s there. Nate knows it’s there.

Nate cocks his head to the side, saying lightly, “The sun get to you or something? I’d like my property back, Sheriff.”

At that entreaty, Brad snaps back into focus. “You best be joking, Fick. You think I’m gonna hand over a piece of evidence, just like that? Just ‘cause you asked me nice?”

Nate’s eyes harden. “I wasn’t asking nicely. I said I wanted my piece back, and I do. It’s mine. Stealing my gun from me isn’t going to help your investigation, as I got nothing to do with what you’re sniffing around.”

“Like hell,” Brad spits. He closes the gap between them with a rough grab at Nate’s vest, fingers wrapped into the open armhole as Brad yanks Nate forward.

Nose to nose, Brad, says, “Your gun was the only weapon unaccounted for near the site, all bullets discharged. Same-caliber casings were found on the dead bodies. Now, I thought you were some boat-licker who got toilet-trained at university, where they force brains between people's ears, but I must be wrong because you sure ain't got any.” His voice is low and threatening but Nate looks impassive, his eyes flinty and steel-colored in the muted light. 

Brad barrels on, “You honestly think you can just come around my town, throw your special-edition Outlaw into my backyard one mile from the dirtiest firefight we’ve seen in months, and I’m gonna just let you go? Think you’re too nice to get in trouble with the law, Nate? Too pretty to rot in jail with the rest of the boys who’d pushed their luck and lost?”

Nate’s angry now, Brad can feel it. He can feel the heat thrumming off Nate’s body, can see how Nate’s mouth is set into a hard line, lips downturned at the corners. Lesser men might tremble in the face of Nate’s dark look, but it don’t make a lick of difference to Brad.

Nothing makes Brad’s blood run colder than a potential killer.

“I’m bringing you in,” Brad says curtly.

The crack to his jaw comes from nowhere. Brad reels back, hand rushing to cradle his throbbing cheek.

“Let me know when you’ve pulled your head out of your ass long enough to notice what’s been going on in your town,” Nate says coldly. “I’m gonna want my gun back.”

Nate turns around, sauntering away like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Well, shit. Maybe that works for him back East, but it sure as hell ain’t gonna fly here.

Brad turns his head to the side, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the dirt. He calls out, “Fick.”

Nate halts. Somewhere, a few streets away, a dog starts barking and Brad takes that as his cue, launching himself forward. He stretches his arm out to grab Nate’s right shoulder and wrenches him around. 

Nate ducks the first overhead cuff Brad throws, but Brad expected no less and meets him there with a hard fist to the side. Nate absorbs it easily though, and before he can think twice he’s blocking Nate’s swing with a last-minute arm up to protect his face.

“Leave it, Colbert,” Nate hisses. He drops down and gets an uppercut in, which can normally knock Brad off balance if dealt low enough, but Nate’s no midget either and the force of it’s dulled against the packed muscle of Brad’s upper abs.

“You’re _attacking a Sheriff,”_ Brad laughs, or a coughs, he’s not really sure. “You think I’m gonna ignore that? Fuck that, Fick,” Brad says, throwing off another one of Nate’s empty swings. “You’re off your fucking rocker.”

Brad bends down real low. Springs forward. He tackles Nate right in the torso, knocking him off his feet until they both roll back once—twice—struggling in the dust, Brad tasting dirt. An eternity passes while they grapple, only the sounds of scraping grit and grunts of exertion escaping into the air until they fall into a hold, Nate wrapped around Brad’s back like a starfish trying to open a clam. 

Brad’s Stetson digs in uncomfortably, crushed between their bodies. Nate’s own has since been discarded, lying upside-down in Brad’s line of vision a couple yards away.

“Look,” Nate says into Brad’s ear, moist breath puffing over sensitive skin. Brad jerks his head away, but Nate’s still there as he continues, “This is stupid. I’m not the one you want.”

Brad struggles wordlessly, but the top-down formation they’re in has Brad’s cheek grinding into alleyway dirt with no leverage to speak of. His best bet is to talk his way out.

“If you’ve got nothing to do with this morning’s shootout, then why you fighting me?”

Nate freezes. _Bingo._ It’s only for a split second, but a second is all Brad needs to break out of the hold and snatch Nate’s forearms, swiveling out from under him as he yanks back on them like they’re reins. 

Brad clambers aboard, twisting Nate’s wrists in a way that’s got them taut and vulnerable, completely at his mercy but Brad’s taking no chances. Pins him down with one knee between the shoulder blades for good measure.

Nate swears a little, rocking back and forth to try and unseat Brad but there’s nothing to be done. Brad could break the frail, little bones in Nate’s wrists at the slightest provocation, and he reminds Nate of this fact by pushing down just hard enough to feel.

“Like I said before,” Brad says heavily, trying to keep Nate still beneath his knee. “I’m bringing you in. If not for being involved in the case I’m working, then for assaulting the county sheriff.”

Nate growls, “I was merely trying to save you some time by letting you know, unequivocally, that I’m _not the one you want._ “

Brad’s unconvinced. Regardless of whether or not Nate’s being honest, that’s something he needs to ascertain himself, on his own terms.

Of course, it might help first to figure out _how_ to detain Nate long enough to ask the questions. Brad left his handcuffs on his horse, so he needs to figure out a decent substitute. Looks around for a bit, trying to see what he can use as a makeshift rope so he can hog-tie his prisoner. Or at least get his hands bound, keeping them from launching anymore blindsiding attacks.

Nate clears his throat, and Brad refocuses. He keeps his weight forward, making sure Nate’s got no wiggle room to try and reverse their positions, but pays attention to whatever Nate’s gonna say.

“Let me go.”

Brad almost laughs. “No.”

“Check my vest pocket.”

“Again, no,” he says automatically, but then his brain catches up to his ears. “Wait, what?”

“Just do it,” Nate says, voice muffled by being directed into the ground. Brad leans forward, trying to suss out what Nate’s up to.

“Why don’t you tell me what I’m gonna find there, first?”

“A reason for you to let me go,” Nate says simply. 

Brad frowns, sensing a trap, but if he’s methodical about this then things should be fine. Can’t deny that he’s interested in what Nate might consider a reason to let an assailant walk away scot-free.

He lets Nate’s arms buckle down, but keeps a firm grip on his wrists and sits on his lower back so that Nate’s still immobilized. Hardly needs to, though—Nate’s pretty much stopped fighting.

Brad presses him into the ground anyway, stretching out so that his weight’s evenly distributed across Nate’s body and locks his legs around Nate’s. “Which pocket?” Brad asks quietly into his ear.

Nate turns his head to the side, his breaths sounding labored as Brad crushes his lungs. “Inside pocket,” Nate manages. “Left side.”

Careful to keep Nate restrained, Brad frees his right arm and moves it over Nate’s shoulder, wedging a hand between the ground and Nate’s chest. It’s difficult though, the dirt ground scraping against the back of his hand as he tries to squeeze down into the opening of Nate’s vest.

“Here,” Nate says softly, lifting his chest a little. Brad relents, because otherwise he’s got no room to maneuver. They both curve up a little, Nate fitting against Brad’s body like a spoon, leaving just enough space for Brad’s fingers to cross from grungy earth to the fine, smooth satin of Nate’s vest lining. Brad grasps for whatever Nate’s talking about, fingers worming into the inner pocket he finds there.

Fuck, this is getting dicey. Brad’s entire right arm is wrapped around Nate, holding him tight in a way that’d be excusable if they were still fighting but borders on inappropriate now that Nate’s compliant underneath him. Beneath his splayed hand, he can feel the ridges of Nate’s chest through layers of clothing.

“You’re sure it’s there?” Brad asks, voice gruff.

“Yeah,” Nate says, sounding like he’s having trouble breathing. Granted, Brad is draped across his back like a two-hundred pound anvil.

Finally, Brad touches the edge of something thin and unyielding, like a card or a piece of metal. He stretches his arm to get at it, digging deeper—straining—

Nate rears up like a wave, rolling Brad over with a hard, backwards whack of his shoulder.

Brad hits the ground hard, breath knocked out of him as Nate falls on top, his back to Brad’s chest. They both scramble to sit up, but gravity keeps Nate in place and he uses the advantage to dive forward, hugging Brad’s legs with anaconda-like arms as Nate’s ankles cross to make a chokehold against Brad’s throat, the little _shit._

The back of Brad’s head hits the ground and he blinks up at the clear night sky, seeing stars. Isn’t sure if they’re supposed to be spinning.

“I wasn’t lying,” Nate says, his voice sounding far away. Brad blinks away his disorientation and tries to move his legs but Nate’s arms are absolute as they clinch Brad’s thighs to his chest. Brad cranes his neck up far as it’ll go, maybe see a weak point he can exploit—

He’s greeted by the sight of Nate’s ass, trousers stretched tight over it.

Well, now.

“I wasn’t lying,” Nate repeats hastily, like it should matter to Brad. “My badge is in there. I would’ve shown you earlier, but you seemed keen on tossing my ass in jail and I’m sorry Sheriff, but I don’t have time for that.”

“Is this before or after you decided a sucker punch was the most prudent course of action?” Fuck, just saying it riles him up again. Brad bucks hard, thrusting his back into an arch, but Nate’s crossed ankles push down hard against his throat, trapping him there.

“You pissed me off,” Nate says like it’s an explanation.

Brad would laugh if he could get some air into his lungs. Says instead, “I don’t know what kinda badge you got, Fick, but I’m pretty sure there ain’t a branch of office in this country—any legal branch, that is—that condones unprovoked violence against local law enforcement.”

Above him, Brad feels Nate give a silent chuckle that vibrates through his body, Nate’s chest rubbing against…well. Rubbing against Brad.

It’s kind of distracting.

Brad’s only half-listening as Nate replies, “I think I can safely say that the United States Marshals Service could give a rat’s ass about any employment of unprovoked violence on their watch, so long as we get the job done.”

Brad closes his eyes, saying unevenly, “Marshal, huh?”

He feels Nate drop his forehead for a moment, brushing against Brad’s thigh. “Yeah,” Nate says. His breath goes straight through the twill of his jeans, warm and humid. 

Fuck, they really need to move this along.

“So can we skip the part where—”

“Um,” Nate says tensely.

Shit. 

“Sheriff, this isn’t—I mean, I’m not—”

Nate lets up a bit, arms going slack with distraction and while Brad might be a little off his game at the moment, he senses an opening and reacts by rote.

Brad throws Nate’s ankles off his neck and turns the both of them over, dealing a firm knee to the stomach mid-roll that gets Nate to curl up with a small grunt of pain. It buys him time enough to scramble over and plunk down on Nate’s chest, using his knees to lock Nate’s arms to his sides as Brad shimmies backwards, all the way to his improvised seat on Nate’s stomach. 

Nate struggles against the vise of Brad’s knees, his long legs kicking up a storm behind Brad’s back, but he’s effectively trapped.

Brad grins, ignoring Nate’s wild fussing, and rides the groundswells like he would a bucking horse. He reaches for the front of his belt, undoing it to the wide-eyed stare.

Nate asks nervously, “What are you doing?”

Brad yanks his belt to the side, pulling it out. Each loop that frees the leather gives a little snap in the air.

Underneath him, Nate’s stopped resisting. His eyes drift down to a half-lidded state and he watches Brad from under shadowy lashes, biting his lip.

Brad pauses, coming to a dumb realization that he’s still hard. It makes the front of his jeans tent out a little bit.

“Sheriff,” Nate says roughly. “I asked you a question.”

It’s got to be a trick of the night, that edge to Nate’s voice. That, or the sick little Yank is trying to unsettle Brad enough to regain the upper hand.

Well, fuck that. It’s time to end this.

“We could’ve just avoided this whole scuffle,” Brad says decisively, “had you cooperated from the get-go.” 

Brad places the leather of his belt between his teeth to free up his hands, then yanks Nate’s arms out from where they’re pinned to his sides. Tugs his wrists together, bringing them near his teeth so he can work the belt around them with all the tools his body’s got.

Once the knot’s secured, leather pulled tight as it’ll go, Brad lets Nate’s wrists drop.

After a moment’s thought, Brad reaches down and fishes into Nate’s inner vest pocket. The badge is where he said it’d be, five-pointed silver star that bears the title _U.S. Marshal._

Brad sticks it back into Nate’s pocket. 

“I don’t care if you’re a Marshal, an Army general, or the goddamned President of the United States,” he proclaims. “You’re implicated in three homicides and I ain’t letting you wander off until I know what part you played in them.”

He lets himself enjoy the incredulous look that comes across Nate’s face, then gets to his feet and pulls Nate up by the loose leather trailing from his wrists.

Once he’s up Nate makes as if to argue, but the look of warning Brad sends seems to deter him. Nate’s face closes off and he says, “Let’s get this over with.”

Brad marches his captive to the city jailhouse, fourteen blocks away. They don’t speak, other than Brad’s perfunctory exchanges with the occasional passersby, but Brad can feel Nate’s eyes on him the whole way there.

\-----

After he drops Nate off, Brad rides home in the thick of night. 

His house, an old, converted ranch, is about five miles east of Reno where the land transforms from hard-packed desert into marshland. Reno might be dry as an old maid, especially with the main source of freshwater diverted into irrigation ditches and cisterns, but around Brad’s home he’s surrounded by patchy outcrops of flowering wildgrass, rooted to hard soil and crumbled boulders.

It’s a distance Brad has to cross twice each working day, but he doesn’t mind. Far from it, in fact. There’s nothing like the feel of Brad’s horse galloping strong underneath him, cool air whipping against his face. It helps ease his brewing mind tonight, anyway.

Once inside, Brad sits on his bed with a hand mirror and holds it up to his face. The damage looks all right—some scrapes here and there, and his lip is split from Nate’s initial cuff, but there ain’t nothing he can’t handle.

He gingerly touches the cut on his lip, which is dried over with blood. It throbs a little and when he presses in harder, the wound splits open and fresh blood wells to the top.

Brad automatically licks his lower lip, tasting copper. In his reflection, the red of his mouth reminds him of Nate.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day breaks with a fucking dust storm.

When Brad ducks into the stable, the rays of dawn are just pulling up over the horizon, but his horse is already up and alert. Howling wind must’ve woke him up.

Hummer greets Brad with a snort and shoots the dirtiest damned look at the saddle Brad's trying—unsuccessfully—to hide behind his back.

“Oh come on, you dumb beast. I gotta get to work,” Brad growls.

Hummer’s a funny creature. Doesn’t so much as blink in the middle of a firefight, but once you get a little breeze going, the slightest _hint_ of a storm, he spooks so hard you practically have to sucker-punch the damned beast to get anything done.

After three failed attempts to get the saddle on, Brad finally distracts his horse long enough to slap the gear on and strap it in, even as Hummer half-heartedly tries to buck the seat off. 

Brad goads, “Nice try, Humvee. Better luck next time.”

He swings up to the saddle and makes himself comfortable, then pulls his bandanna right up to his eyes to ready for the storm.

It takes a good twenty minutes longer than usual to get to the station, Brad’s eyes stinging with sand, but get there they do. Brad leaves Hummer in the stable, then fights through the horizontal wind until he gets to the front door of the shuddering joint. He busts in and throws himself forward, wind scrabbling at his back until he wrestles the door shut behind him.

The howling sounds die down to a muted whistle. There’s grit in Brad’s eyes, his mouth, his ears. Hell, there’s grit in all areas of unmentionables, and Brad’s foul mood only worsens when he looks up to find the building as empty as a ghost town.

Striding over to his enclosed office, Brad shakes his head both to expel sand from his bristly hair and also to express dismay at the utter failure of his team to even _pretend_ to show up—

“Oh, hey Brad.”

Sitting in Brad’s chair like it’s his own, Deputy Person leans back in his seat and rolls a pencil back and forth between his palms. The grin he shoots Brad is crooked and a little deranged.

Ray’s like a bad case of herpes—no darned way of getting rid of him. “Shame the wind didn’t blow you into a ditch somewhere west of the Pacific,” Brad greets.

“My monster prick weighed me down. I dragged it all the way down to the office, yessiree.”

“On the way to _my_ office, you mean.”

After a pause, Ray offers by way of explanation, “Your office has pencils.”

“Get out.”

Ray obliges, but not before snagging another pencil out of the tin on Brad’s desk. 

With his last remaining stylus, Brad sits down and quickly fills out some paperwork to ready for his visit to the jailhouse. He’s got a lead to pursue…a lead with cool green eyes, an expressive mouth, and a smarter left hook than a cornered Irish scrapper.

As Brad flips through pages of his notebook, he realizes there are some other contacts in the area who might prove helpful to the case. He murmurs to himself, “Lot of places to hit up.”

Outside his door Ray yells, “Where are we going?”

\-----

The wind dies down quick and by the time Brad and Ray strike out, you wouldn’t even know there’d been a fierce dust storm just that morning.

They split up to cover more ground. Brad refrains from telling his deputy about his altercation with Nate for reasons that elude himself, but quickly rationalizes that there’s no point in talking up a lead before it pans out.

The city police department looms up from the street, but Brad skips the entrance and winds around back. There, the small brick cell juts out into the alleyway, completely impenetrable but for the tiny, barred window.

He dusts himself off one last time, then cranes a look inside.

The cell is empty.

Fuck.

Brad takes a deep breath to calm himself, but it doesn’t work.

Fuck, of _course_ the cell’s empty. Hell would sooner freeze over than Schwetje handle a task without fucking it up the ass.

Brad makes his way back to the front of the department and lets himself inside.

“Schwetje,” Brad barks.

He sees the chief of police turn around in one of the back corners, his bulky frame dwarfing the shorter man beside him who suddenly finds himself unduly absorbed in the walls, as do the other five or six grunts in the office.

“ _Schwetje,_ “ Brad hisses, stalking over. “Can you inform me as to why my prisoner—a prime suspect in yesterday’s shooting—seems to have vanished into thin air since I left him so happily occupying the jailhouse last night?”

Schwetje’s eyes dart around uncertainly, before meeting Brad’s own. He replies, “There wasn’t enough reason to hold him, Sheriff.”

“Not enough reason?” Brad shoves his hand into his work bag and pulls up a fistful of papers. “Does this look like not enough _reason?_ These are Doc’s findings from the examinations of the corpses. They link Nate Fick’s gun directly to the scene of the crime. Does that _sound_ like not enough reason?”

Aggression seems to be the wrong tack to take, as Schwetje furrows his brow and visibly steels himself. “Sheriff,” he says slowly. “I’m sure it’s as you say it is. But I didn’t have those papers and we had to let him go.”

“I told Hannigan I’d come by in the morning with them,” Brad practically shouts, eyes scanning the room for that yellow-bellied pissant.

“We’re required to release prisoners by 10 o’clock in the morning if there’s nothing to hold them—”

“—it’s _five minutes past_. You saw the storm this morning. Couldn’t give me an extra—”

“You made the rules, Sheriff. I was only following the county department’s lead.”

Brad wishes he could knock his head against the wall. Trust this cretin to twist Brad’s words around until they resemble buttfuck none of their original intent.

Unfortunately, no amount of logic will unfuck the colossal ineptitude of Reno’s chief of police, so Brad will have to cut his losses. There’s still a full day ahead of him, and it ain’t like Brad’s lost his ability to track a man down overnight.

\-----

Brad heads back to the office to pick up Hummer, then steers his way towards the seedier side of town. He aims for Chinatown which is a bit out of the way, beyond of the small tributary of Truckee River that cuts through the southern edge of town.

As he crosses the footbridge, the streets of spaced-out, flat wooden buildings quickly turn into ramshackle dwellings that crowd the riverbank. Overhead, drying laundry suspends from window to window like banners of clothing while Chinese men—just men, as the ratio of women is abysmally low here, even for a frontier town—gather in the streets, spitting and smoking and jabbering at each other in foreign, consonant tones. 

Brad knows the area well. Shit lot of action heats up around here, illicit money exchanged more frequently than handshakes while the men compete for work now that the Southern Pacific’s done and laid out. The red light district’s just north as well, and the bleed from that adds up to a whole lot of potential trouble festering in just a few square blocks of space.

Brad treks his way through the streets, tipping his hat at a familiar face or two, but he’s mostly occupied with avoiding piles of stinking horse shit on the way to the edge of town.

Once there, Brad stops and looks out. His gaze runs across the large, canvas tents that dot the landscape like the circus has come to town. Ain’t no circus, though; other than bare-bones shops and grocers, who mainly cater to their own Oriental clientele, Chinatown’s good for just about one thing. 

Gambling.

\-----

Inside one of the tents, where the roar of drunken voices is almost as obnoxious as the awful stench of too many men in too small a place, Brad finds Manimal at a blackjack table off to the side. Scurrilous creature, no doubt, but Manimal’s always got one ear to the ground and loose enough lips to transmit the information in exchange for hard cash. Someone’s got to finance his outrageous gambling addiction, anyhow.

“A real Mary, you say?” Manimal laughs loudly and slaps down two cards onto the table. A jack and an ace. His gap-toothed smile grows as he scoops up three dollars and a pocket watch, the contents of the pool. “What, did you hook yourself a surprise when you last visited the whorehouse?”

“I didn’t say he was a Mary,” Brad says exasperatedly. “Just that he kinda looks like a girl. Big eyes, long eyelashes. Real pretty, you know.”

Manimal turns in his seat and stares at Brad.

Brad rolls his eyes. “So you heard anything or not? Unlike some rocks-for-brains cuckolds who got nothing better to do than waste gold dust on shit like—” Brad reaches over, ignoring Manimal’s protests as he picks up the pocket-watch. “—fucking tin machines that don’t fucking _work_ —” He throws it against Manimal’s barrel chest. “I got shit to do. So stop wasting my time.”

Manimal blinks at him. “Shit, Brad. That's cold. Diane just left me yesterday.”

“Well maybe if you started talking earlier, I wouldn’t have had to say nothing mean at all.”

Manimal starts talking. As he dutifully explains how Pastor Jim saw a bowlegged drunk amble into a hardware shop, asking for a map of San Francisco only to accidentally mention they were for some carrot-top willing to pay double for it and etcetera, a sudden chill tickles the back of Brad's neck.

He jerks his shoulders up, trying to shake off the sensation, but it's no help—the feeling lingers. Finally, he turns around to look.

Brad scans the joint, but there ain’t nothing out of the ordinary. Just the expected rickety tables, the expected weathered gamblers. Something like twenty men packed into this particular tent, only half of whom Brad recognizes in a trafficked place like this.

Must've been an odd breeze, perhaps. Brad faces forward again and gestures for Manimal to continue, but then the odd feeling returns. 

Behind the Chinese dealer, who’s shuffling cards with the speed of a barreling train, a line of dustpans and gold-digging tools decorate the otherwise austere canvas tent. Brad narrows his gaze, focusing on the reflections in the dustpans.

While the image is hardly ideal, dirty and scratched up as the pans are, it’s nonetheless with exacting surety that Brad sees, a couple tables behind him, a dark-haired stranger turn around in his seat. As Manimal goes on obliviously, the stranger openly watches them.

\-----

There’s a two-story building in Reno, tucked into a side street just off Commercial Row, which used to go by the name of ‘The Gold Tavern’. The signage was done up in bright, shiny brass, but after the gilded signs got nabbed a good eight times in as many months, the innkeeper swapped it out for a less tempting title: The Copper Tavern.

That’s where Nate’s staying.

This bit of trivia makes Brad a happy Sheriff. It’s also probably made Manimal a happy informant, since he was paid handsomely for his troubles.

Brad has all afternoon to stake the place out. Other than the usual team meeting at sundown, his schedule’s clear and he’s got one hell of a lead to pursue.

It takes less than twenty minutes to ride from the gambling tents to The Copper Tavern.

“I’m taking this,” Brad says to the clerk, stretching over the counter with long arms to pluck a room key off one of the wall hooks.

“Hey now, Sheriff,” the clerk protests, pushing his spectacles up onto his graying head. “That’s my only spare, and I need it for emergencies.”

“Then consider this an emergency.” Brad smiles, showing all his teeth. With a small toss of the key, Brad jauntily swipes it out of the air and proceeds to climb the only staircase of the small boardinghouse.

Nate’s lodging is on the second floor, the corner room. It’s the one with the most space and the biggest windows.

Brad inwardly rolls his eyes. Fucking tea-drinking rich boy with his hoity-toity standards and his fancy, expensive toys (the best of which Brad’s still got in the form of Nate’s Outlaw sticking out the back of his jeans). He can’t tell if he’s amused or exasperated by Nate’s old-money stink.

Well, no matter. Brad ain’t here to ponder the history of a baby-faced Easterner, and neither has he got time to let his guard down because downstairs, in _plain fucking view_ , the man from the gambling tent is still trailing him.

Brad glances over the edge of the balcony and watches the dark-haired man get a beer to sit down with.

Nobody trails Brad but a walking target with a fucking death-wish.

In the meantime, Brad's got better things to do with his time than worry about a third-rate spy.

Brad continues down the balconied hallway until he hits the wall at the end. The door to his left leads to the room Nate’s staying in.

Brad leans towards the door, checking for sounds within. Chances are his boy Nate’s about town, as it’s smack-dab in the middle of the day, so the room should be empty.

He listens for a bit, hand reaching for the knob when the tiniest sound permeates through to the hallway. Brad freezes, ears pricking alert. So much for that theory.

He quickly switches to Plan B. Gingerly presses his hands and one ear flat against the door until the small sounds sharpen into separate voices—there are two people inside, at least.

They’re speaking too softly for Brad to pick up any individual words, but he can still tell one of them is Nate. Something about the cadence of his speech, clipped and sure…couldn’t be anyone else.

An unmistakable sound rings out, of someone landing on bedsprings. They squeak loudly, bouncing a bit even as the talking continues.

Frowning, Brad keeps his ear against the door. Below the balcony, he notices the dark-haired stranger watching him from the first floor, but that guy can go to hell. Brad ain’t missing this conversation.

He hears someone say, “We’d better find the goods and quick. Who’s to say she hasn’t left town already?”

Another creak of the bed resounds, like someone’s joined it.

“Doubt it. She has to unload it first.” The second voice is definitely Nate’s. “The dope’s no good to her rotting away in a storeroom that no one can find. We have a couple days at least to look around, so long as they don’t hear we’re in town.”

Dope. They’re talking opium in there. Fuck, Schwetje just passed an ordinance a few months back to get the shit outlawed, and the trade’s already gone underground?

Brad rubs his eyes, adding that to the list of things he needs to look into when there aren’t unsolved murders and peace-keeping to occupy his time with.

Through the door, the voices start up again.

“It wasn’t your fault, Nate.”

“I had a clear shot. I should’ve taken it.”

“So why didn’t you?” The other man sounds resigned, like he knows the answer already.

The bedsprings make a loud protest—someone falling back on the mattress, probably. “I can’t let Ferrando down.” Nate’s voice sounds small and young. “He reached out to me specifically for this case. I have to respect that, Gunny. Don’t I?”

There’s a long pause where Brad nearly pulls a muscle trying to hear something, because if Nate’s words were anything but an entreaty for comfort and reassurance, Brad’ll eat his hat. The silence is unsettling.

Finally, he hears the other man—Gunny—clear his throat. “You think too much. Remember, we just need to bring her in dead _or_ alive. Let’s focus on doing the latter.”

Two heavy feet suddenly clomp onto the hardwood and Brad starts a bit. He silently moves away from the door, stuffing himself into the corner with no time to spare. The door opens so that he’s covered for a brief second, but then quickly closes again to reveal a straight-backed man, bare-headed but for short hair bleached blond by the sun. 

Gunny looks a bit older than Nate—thirty-five, give or take a few years. Judging from the conversation inside, he must be another U.S. Marshal; Nate’s partner, probably. The two seemed real close, at any rate.

As the man jogs down the stairs to exit The Copper Tavern, Brad makes a motion to make himself scarce. He’s not going to get the chance to search the room for more information while Nate’s still in there.

Unfortunately, the door takes that moment to fly back open, and Brad has to launch himself backwards again to avoid getting hit in the face. 

Nate comes out.

He lets the door swing shut behind him, leaving Brad irrevocably exposed for interminable seconds as he stands there, fussing with the untucked tails of his shirt. 

It’s practically a miracle Nate doesn’t notice him. Brad holds his breath, watching apprehensively as Nate tips down the brim of his black, ten-gallon hat before walking off towards the stairs, still buttoning up his vest with neat, deft movements of his arms.

Only when Nate’s disappeared down the stairs does Brad let his breath out.

Feeling a headache coming on, he rubs the crease between his brows with his thumb. There’s no use jumping to conclusions at this juncture—all he’s got to do is get in there and find some harder evidence than just a bad feeling.

\-----

Brad lets himself in with the key he’d snagged, jiggling the loose doorknob to push his way inside.

The room’s as spacious inside as it looks from street-level. It’s kept pretty neat, too; no clothes laying about or dirty boots kicked onto the wooden plank floors. The only immediate sign of any occupant, in fact, is a traveler’s bag that lies open at the foot of the bed.

Brad aims for it but checks the closet first, yanking the slatted doors open.

There’s a second bag on the floor next to a pair of boots he doesn’t remember Nate ever wearing, and the shirts hanging on the wooden bar come in two different sizes.

 _Well, fuck me_ , Brad thinks. He pulls back, works his way through the rest of the small living space scanning everything with sharp eyes. He needn’t work hard, though; two bags, two sets of toiletries—even a blind man could see there’s a second person staying there, most likely Gunny.

That would be reasonable enough, seeing as how Gunny and Nate are probably partners, if not for a single, glaring detail that remains.

 _One bed,_ Brad wryly notes. He stares at the full-sized bed for a bit, then reaches over to strip the blanket back. Underneath, the second, thinner sheet is twisted up and kicked to the side, half-hanging off. The sight of it makes Brad’s chest clench unpleasantly.

Lord, but Brad _knew_ there’d been something fishy about Nathaniel Fick. Boy that groomed don’t just join up with the Marshals Service, looking to make a living hunting robbers or anything so dangerous. Naw, Nate’s got a _reason_ to be running. Maybe it’s the man he’s bunking with, or maybe it’s the woman he couldn’t bring himself to shoot—hell, maybe it’s both. Whatever it is, Nate’s blown into Brad’s town now, and he’s stirring up dirt faster’n a Washoe dust storm. 

There are three dead men, which is bad enough already, but if the Service is involved and rooting around for opium stockpiles? There sure as hell’s something larger afoot. And Nate—oh, good ol’ Nate, the sweet-faced Marshal—he’s hovering around the edges of the whole mess like an all-knowing Injun spirit.

All of this is putting Brad in a right foul mood.

Throwing the cover back over the mattress, Brad returns to the bag at the foot of the bed. 

He shoves the leather sides apart and really digs in, but there ain’t nothing in there besides some folded up clothes and odds n’ ends. He recognizes one of the shirts as the one Nate wore when he sauntered into Mathilda a day ago—just a day ago?—sunburned as a redneck hillbilly, thirsty as horse.

There’s a discarded belt holster tossed inside the bag as well, and the silver buckle in front is spit-shiny new. Must be the holster Nate had Percy Grant repair for him.

Brad pulls out the Army Outlaw from the back of his jeans and slides it into the holster bag, unsurprised when the iron sights perfectly align with the worn-out groove inside the leather.

Nothing else in the bag jumps out at him though. Brad keeps the gun but puts the holster back and leaves it alone, moves to the bag in the closet. Again, just some clothes, some extra ammo and empty clips. A couple of bandannas.

One of the handkerchiefs feels a bit stiffer than the rest. Brad pulls it out and unfolds the fabric to find a couple small photographs inside.

They’re both of the same woman. She’s dark-skinned with black hair, eyes wide-set and almond-shaped and at the bottom of the card, written in ink, is the title _Cocheta the Unknown, 1883._ She’s obviously a native, a fact made more clear by the second photo where she’s posing erect and proud beside an older man donning a chieftain’s traditional garb. 

They’re not locals, though—Brad’s gotten used to seeing Injuns in deerskin tunics, their women in short skirts that show their legs all the way up to their knees, but in the photo both subjects are wearing what looks like cotton, and the girl’s got on a floor-length dress, puffy with layers that would be begging for a heatstroke in Washoe climate.

A scrabbling noise comes from the door and Brad quickly pockets the photos, scrambling to his feet so fast the blood rushes to his head in a fade of white.

He hears the door burst open but before Brad can blink away the haze from his eyes, a deafening gunshot rings out. Luckily, he’d stumbled back—the bullet misses him and soon after, his vision’s all clear.

Brad narrows his eyes. Standing before him is the fucking twerp from downstairs, who’d been following Brad all goddamned day like a frightfully good impersonation of Ray Person. The guy’s dark-skinned with chiseled features and full, black hair—another damned Injun, looks like.

Brad yanks his Colt out and fires back a warning shot, making sure to aim just a few inches high so the Injun can hear the _zip_ of a close fucking call.

Doesn’t look like it’s gonna be enough. The Injun strides forward and shakily puts his gun in front of him, aiming for another shot. Brad ain’t gonna give him the chance, though.

He lunges backwards, thrusting his elbows behind him where he knows they’ll meet huge glass windows. He shatters them easily, the magnificent noise making his assailant flinch. Brad uses the momentum to hop out onto the roof of the first story, then swings himself over the edge to land on the packed dirt road outside.

The smattering of people on the street give Brad a wide berth as he picks himself up and dusts off his pants. He automatically reaches back to check for Nate’s pistol, relaxing when his fingers touch warm metal.

Up above, jagged-edged holes gawp like blacked-out teeth where windows used to be. Brad scans them to make sure the Injun ain’t thinking anything so foolish as to follow him to the ground, then dashes around to the front of The Copper Tavern and fights upstream through the panicked patrons fleeing the hotel.

Brad storms upstairs, two steps at a time and reaches the landing—

“Fuck!” Brad swears as a gunshot fires at him, splintering the wall just inches to his left. He swings his head around, but there’s nobody in sight so Brad charges on, keeping below the barred railing before pausing at the entryway of the corner room.

Brad ducks his head in and out, eliciting a premature shot from the Injun who’s waiting for him behind the bed.

From that angle, his attacker’s got a shit line of vision. The bed’s a four poster frame raised high off the ground, so if Brad gets prone to the ground and crawls his way in…

Keeping silent, Brad does just that. The Injun’s muttering to himself, completely oblivious to the way Brad’s gotten underneath the bed, his target’s jittery knees in plain sight. He almost feels bad about how easy this is.

Brad stretches his arm out and nudges the muzzle of his gun against his target’s buckskin trousers, right between the legs, and slowly, deliberately pulls down the hammer with a threatening _click._

“Drop the gun,” Brad orders.

The pistol falls to the ground with a clatter.

Brad reaches out and shoves it away with his free hand, letting it skid all the way across the room until it hits the opposite wall. Keeping his Colt pointed right where it is, Brad flips onto his back and hoists himself out from under the bed.

“First things first,” Brad says conversationally as he gets to his feet. He moves his aim up to his captive’s face. “Who are you?”

The Injun stutters a little, but he eventually gets his name out. “Meesh.” He squeezes his eyes shut and sits back on his heels, hands raised in the air. “Sh-shit man, don’t shoot!”

“Then don’t give me a reason to. Why you been following me around all day, hm?”

Meesh’s eyes dart left and right, and Brad ain’t a fucking moron. He knows the Injun’s got back-up—someone took a shot at him out on the balcony, and it sure as hell wasn’t this ass-clown.

Brad’s only got so much time. He jerks his gun to the side and lets off a round, punching a quarter-sized hole into the floor with a bang that almost hides the sound of Meesh’s high-pitched yelp.

“Okay, okay! Look dude, it’s not personal. It’s those guys staying in this room, that’s who we care about.”

Fuck. He’s talking about Nate. “What do you want with them?”

“I …please, Sheriff. They’ll kill me if I tell you.”

Brad cocks the hammer again and the cylinder turns, reloading a fresh bullet. “I can save them the trouble.”

“Fuck, _all right._ Just…stop following those dudes, okay? They’re up to no good.”

“You mean _you’re_ up to no good. It’s got to be something real bad if the Service is after you.”

“Wait, what Service?” Meesh furrows his brow, and Brad can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

Shit. Way to go, Brad.

Meesh asks, “Are you talking about, like, U.S. Marshals?”

“I didn’t say shit,” Brad responds curtly. He reaches for the handcuffs hanging off his front belt loop and pulls it off with one hand, the other still aimed at his captive’s head. “Stand up and turn around.”

Meesh gets up and does as he’s told, but before Brad can cuff him the room swarms with bullets that close in on two fronts—half from the balcony outside their door and half through the windows, shattering whatever glass is left. Brad and Meesh both drop to the ground, holding their ears in poor defense against the bone-rattling clamor.

Meesh starts to crawl away and Brad grabs at his ankle, but it’s completely futile as two other Injuns burst into the room and aim their rifles at Brad, who’s still on the ground.

He quickly weighs his options—either cut through the hotel or dive out the window again. Both come with perils, but if Meesh’s friends are anything like the piss-poor shot he is, Brad’s got a good chance of making it out alive when they’re shooting from afar.

Window it is.

Brad rolls up against the wall and leaps to his feet too quickly for either gunman to shoot him in time, then hops the broken glass to the roof outside where he gets harmlessly sprayed with a few more missed attacks from snipers in the opposite building.

The street’s done cleared out by now, the telltale noises of an afternoon firefight the best blockade a Sheriff could ever ask for. It rankles Brad that he don’t have the means to take care these upstarts on his own, but he recognizes a fool’s mission when he sees one and has sense enough to retreat.

The Injuns try to pursue him, trailing out of The Copper Tavern but once Brad dashes to Hummer, who’s parked outside and unharmed, he jumps astride and easily gets away from the straggling shots. They fly down the street together, leaving a billowing trail of dust in their wake.

Brad’s heart races, adrenaline pulsing through his veins. There’s no way to tamp down his body’s overexcited reactions to the fight, but he forces himself to tether his mind to focus on next steps.

Above his head, the sky’s starting to darken. It’s about time he and his men convene, provided they finally made it into town after the morning’s dust storm. Brad steers his horse down the appropriate streets, leading them back to the department.


	4. Chapter 4

When Brad arrives at the office, he’s hardly surprised to find the rest of his men next to Ray’s desk, hunched like a bunch of strays around a bone.

In this case, Deputy Person seems to be the bone. 

“…should’ve heard him, guys. He’s got a hard-on the size of Mount Shasta for this kid, following him around like Fick’s the last pussy on earth.”

A very loud, very _obnoxious_ bone.

“Hell, he even ditched me to go see _Manimal_ , and y’all know how much that felt-humping blockhead charges for his fucking hogwash! I hope Brad got _something_ for his troubles at least, like a handjob or—” 

Brad clears his throat. His men turn around in one complete motion, their faces predictably guilty (except for Ray’s as he turns around in his chair, predictably cheerful in a special sort of way).

Brad makes a show of sending icy looks to each lawman, one at a time.

Deputy Reyes, tall and beefy with sweat-glistening skin peeking through a too-tight shirt, smiles abashedly and shrugs under Brad’s gaze.

Walt, on the other hand, points to the back of Ray’s head and mouths, _He started it._ Brad snorts a little. Walt’s a cute kid.

When Brad moves on to lift a disappointed eyebrow at Deputy Espera, he just mirrors Brad with his own and says, “Shit, dog. You know nobody can shut him up once he’s on a roll.”

Brad keeps a straight face. He says magnanimously, “This is true. I do share the unfortunate burden of knowing how _impossible_ it is to get our resident retard to quit jawing off like a young buck who just popped his girlfriend’s cherry.”

Ray quickly counters. “Come on, Brad. You can’t expect me to keep mum about the sordid love affair you’re having with our primary suspect.”

“Ray—”

“It’s really like, romantic and shit. You shouldn’t be ashamed of anything. Well, anything other than getting your ass stuffed full of cock on a regular—”

“Ray!”

Ray shuts up. He knows Brad’s limits—usually likes to exceed them—but he does manage to stop short of inciting actual murder. So far, at least.

“Let me just make this loud and clear to you impressionable, knitting-bee little bitches.” Brad says, staring his men down. “I like pussy. I like a good, old-fashioned dripping cootch. Usually around my dick, but sometime’s it’s just nice to look at and maybe eat out.”

A small chorus of _mm-hmm_ ’s break out among his men and Walt gets a faraway look in his eyes. Brad continues, “Even better is pussy you pay for, because then all that bullshit like _feelings_ or _complications_ fly right out the door. What’s the use in getting saddled with a backstabbing bitch when you can get a good fuck whenever you want it, _how_ you want it, for the bargain price of a buck fifty an hour?”

Ray’s looking at Brad with that rare, sober expression he gets every time Brad starts getting cynical. It pisses him right the fuck off, but hell—at least Ray’s keeping his trap shut this time.

He’ll make it quick. “If I can make my dick happy anytime I like, _why_ , in Christ Our Lord and Savior’s name—”

“But Brad, you’re Jewish—”

“—would I fuck up a serious investigation by chasing our prime suspect’s lily-white, Eastern ass when I don’t even _like_ ass in the first place?”

There’s a long silence where Poke looks at him knowingly, Ray and Walt trade inscrutable glances, and Rudy breaks out into a mysterious smile before adding, “You know, Sheriff. You shouldn’t knock it before you try it. Something about a nice, firm ass raises my animal spirit.”

A disbelieving silence follows, wherein Ray breaks it by snorting, “Jesus Christ, Rudy. You’re such a fucking fruitcake.”

“Brother, I never said it had to be a man’s ass. You filled in that part all by your lonesome.”

Impatient to steer the dialogue out of its inevitable, downward spiral, Brad crosses his arms and taps his foot until everyone’s eyes turn towards him. Works every time. “You boys can continue your circle-jerk after the meeting’s over,” he says. “Or you can listen to the dirt I dug up today.”

Brad fills them in on how Nate’s actually a U.S. Marshal come to town, sniffing around the local opium market. It opens a floodgate as Rudy and Poke jump in, identifying two of their victims, Marlon and Brown, as partners in a bustling dope business back when shit was still legal.

It makes perfect sense that Marlon and Brown would follow the market underground, and when Ray mentions that Bob Raleigh was notorious for being a get-rich-quick kinda guy, always dabbling in shady business, Walt jumps in and starts weaving together a story that don’t sound half-bad.

“Bob Raleigh landed on a cheap source of opium,” Walt theorizes. “Marlon and Brown didn’t want nobody undercutting them, so they staked him out and killed him.”

“So what about those footprints leaving the site?” Rudy asks. “Fick’s?”

“No,” Brad answers. “Nate was standing closer to Marlon and Brown. You can tell by the entry wounds his gun left in Bob Raleigh’s corpse.”

“So we got a fifth party,” Poke says. “Shit, dog. This case is getting real fucking crowded. So who the fuck was selling opiate to Bob Raleigh?”

Brad takes the opportunity to suggest that Injuns might be involved. Casually mentions the assault at The Copper Tavern, unsurprised when his men start crowing, wanting immediate justice, but Brad calms them down. 

“Patience, boys,” he says and reminds them that everything’s linked to the case—that they need to solve that first before picking off low-hanging fruit like a ragtag bunch of amateur hooligans.

From his seat, Ray thunks his head on his desk, then draws it back up. “Fucking Injuns,” he says. “You take a little land of theirs—okay, _all_ their land—kill some of their wives and babies and shit and oh, _boo hoo hoo_ —” Ray mimes rubbing away tears. “—they get all pissy and start trying to escape the beautiful resorts we’ve built specifically for their ungrateful, redskin asses.”

Brad doesn’t even try to rein in an amused smile. Fuck, Ray could be a millionaire selling the crap that comes out of his fucked up brain if he didn’t have the attention span of…well. Of Ray Person.

\-----

The men start wandering back to their respective desks, but Poke adds one last riposte. 

“Hey, we never did decide who gets to go to Sydney’s tonight.”

Brad’s ears perk. “Sydney’s, the whorehouse? God damn, men. The least you could do is wait ‘til I’m out of earshot before planning your evening debauchery.”

“Naw, dog—it ain’t for us. We figured out where your boy—”

“ _Poke_ ,” Ray hisses, elbowing the Sergeant.

Brad rounds up on Poke, pressing his height to full advantage. “By all means, Sergeant. Don’t stop on Ray’s account.”

Poke shrugs, continuing, “Well, after doing a little recon on your boy Nate, we found out he’s hitting up Sydney’s tonight. Heard him request a girl named Marla…sounded like it weren’t the first time, either. White boy knew exactly which room he’d find her in.”

“That so?” Brad asks. The words comes out colder than he’d intended, and Brad feels his officers tense up. He says, in a more normal tone, “Good work. You boys continue working your leads.”

Rudy straightens up and turns to Poke, asking, “Hold on, brother. You said Fick’s with Marla tonight, right?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Before he died, Bob Raleigh was seeing this mistress, Marlena. You think she could be the same bird Fick’s meeting tonight?”

“He was cheating on his wife?” Walt interrupts. “Shit, that guy’s got more potential killers than California’s got deadbeat cowboys.”

While constructive discussion degenerates into debate over which state’s got the phoniest cowboys, Brad sinks deep into thought.

Out of all three carcasses found in Reno the prior morning, Bob Raleigh was the only body to have bullets traced back to Nate’s gun, which naturally leads him to assume Nate was on scene. This doesn’t account for the fifth party who was with Raleigh, however. Brad’s beginning to wonder if Marla made an appearance during the shootout.

But it doesn’t make _sense,_ because Nate’s a U.S. Marshal and he’s looking for stockpiles of dope with his partner, Gunny. Why the fuck would Nate be at the hookshop now with a dead man’s mistress? She must be connected to the case somehow. And lest Brad forget, there’s a bloodthirsty pack of Injuns thrown into the mix as well.

Jesus Christ, Brad’s head hurts. 

He snaps back into the conversation. “ _No_ , Ray, you may _not_ use Trombley’s hat for a pissing pot when he ain’t there. You know the psycho’s got a little psycho of his own now, and that mini half-Mexican spawn needs his daddy’s unperturbed nurturing before he can grow up to be as bloodthirsty and hellish as he’s destined to be.”

Brad pauses for breath. “Now,” he says, turning to Poke. “Poke.”

“Yeah, Sheriff?”

“When did you see Nate at Sydney’s?”

“Just a little while ago. Thirty, maybe forty minutes back.” Poke reaches into his vest pocket and flips out his fob watch. “Yeah, in fact, he’s probably still there. At least, he should be if he’s getting his money’s worth.”

“All right, then. I’ll take Sydney’s—” Brad waits patiently for the jeers to come and go—”And the rest of you just make sure you got something to show tomorrow. Eight o’ clock in the morning, let me see those bright eyes and bushy tails.”

At that dismissal, the men finally break. Only Ray stays behind.

“Man,” Ray whines, “The only bush you’ll see will be at Sydney’s, you lucky asshole. We were gonna draw straws, Brad!”

“Fuck straws. I saved you a special present, Deputy.” Brad smiles widely and Ray brightens up like it’s Christmas morning at the horse track. 

Brad fills in his Deputy Sheriff on the descriptions of all the Injuns he remembers from that afternoon’s shootout. Mentions specifically that Meesh was an easy target, and not entirely opposed to flapping his lips. Provided a strong enough incentive, that is. 

With instructions to capture and interrogate an enemy, Ray Person looks more than placated.

He still manages to make Brad feel completely transparent, however, when he leans in conspiratorially to say before they split, “Go get ‘im, Brad. Let Fick know his ass is yours—not Marla’s, or any other Susie Rottencrotch’s. I believe in you, Iceman!”

“Understood, Deputy. Now get out of my fucking personal space, you’re giving me syphilis as we speak.”

Ray salutes, then starts flitting around his desk, preparing for his mission. 

Brad turns around to head for the stable. He takes Hummer out and the two of them set a hurried pace towards Reno’s whoring district, just north of Chinatown.

With this latest information under his belt, Brad can safely assume now that Nate ain’t fucking around with the guy sharing his room at The Copper Tavern. The conclusion calms him…at least, it _should_ because while Brad might not be the most religious of zealots or hell, even particularly disgusted by the idea of two guys fucking each other, even he knows a man oughta be with a woman.

But then he wonders, is it so much better that Nate’s sleeping with a dead man’s whore? 

If Brad’s being honest with himself, both scenarios make him so cross he can’t see straight enough to shoot a target the size of Montana Territory. As for the reason _why_ , that’s something a county sheriff working to solve a triple homicide and burgeoning underground drug trade just ain’t got time to waste on.

Through the hazy, dusty twilight, Brad turns down the main drag of Reno’s red light district. He approaches a three-story building. Flickering candlelight can be seen through the windows, and the white-painted sign of Sydney’s looms up large and bright.

\-----

Brad winds up getting a girl himself. He can’t very well bust in on a patron at Sydney’s without warrant, so he does the next best thing by securing a position not ten feet away from his person of interest with only the thinnest, most non-discretionary walls between them, providing a serviceable condition within which to conduct his reconnaissance.

Doesn't hurt he’ll be getting laid as well. Brad's been wound up tighter than a clock since getting shot up at The Copper Tavern, and better to relieve himself now via a professional lady-of-the-line than to muddle through the next few hours of work as scatterbrained as he feels now.

"Missy, would you keep it down?"

Missy quits groaning like she been shot and looks up at Brad from between her legs. "Sheriff, you ain't been back to see me in so long, I done forgot the way you like to fuck."

"Well _un-_ forget, Missy. 'Sides, I ain't just here to get my rocks off tonight. I got work to do, starting with your friend Marla next door."

"Mmm, naughty," she hums. In response, Brad twists his fingers inside her and Missy rears back, moaning salaciously.

After that, little whuffs and whimpers escape into the air as Brad dutifully fingers her. Don't nobody say the Iceman weren't a gentleman. All the while, he listens intently for any sounds next door. Walls so thin, he can just about hear a pin drop.

No pins, though, and not for lack of trying. Either Nate's a real silent kind of lover, or—Brad dares to think—perhaps there ain't any loving going on at all.

The very idea that maybe Nate ain't here to fuck his brains out sends a palpable sense of relief through him. It’s plenty conceivable, too…Nate’s connected to dead Bob Raleigh, so Nate and Marla could simply be getting together to talk about him. Yeah, could be it. Not every two individuals in a brothel gotta be fucking each other like animals. 

Some guys and gals got class, and Mr. Nathaniel Fick just may be the classiest dude ever to grace Washoe County. Besides, it don’t make a lick of sense that a pretty boy like Nate would be paying for it. Brad’s seen the way women act when Nate comes up during questioning—their suggestive smiles, their lewd comments about where they’d seen Nate go and where they _wished_ he were. Seriously, the way those damn girls act, Brad’s beginning to think they’d be paying _Nate_ for some action.

Realizing the preposterous turn his thoughts have made, Brad centers himself back into the present. He’s got one mission at Sydney’s tonight, and he ain’t about to let bullshit thoughts fuck it up.

Well, maybe two missions; his dick’s hard and heavy between his legs. "Flip over," Brad orders, withdrawing his fingers from Missy with a wet noise.

At that moment, a loud thump ratchets out from Nate's room, followed by Marla’s smoky voice saying, _Come here, baby._

A flicker of annoyance flares up in Brad’s gut, then settles down into disappointment. He quickly tamps it away. So Nate’s getting some ass—so the fuck what?

Brad ain’t doing so bad himself. Before him, Missy's on her hands and knees, ready to be taken from behind the way Brad likes.

As he rolls on a rubber and moves forward to grip the soft flesh of Missy’s round hips, Brad’s thoughts wander back to Nate. He wonders how Nate likes to take his women…wonders if his whore is spread out for him right now, warm and willing like Brad’s is. 

Maybe Nate likes it nice and conventional, face-to-face as he fucks into her while soppily holding her stare.

Then again, remembering their fierce, alleyway dustup not twenty-four hours ago, it's possible Brad ain't giving him enough credit.

Maybe Nate likes it rough and dirty instead. Maybe he gets messy with his women, eating them out with an agile tongue and loving the way his face gets wet from their excitement. Maybe he fucks as hard as he punches—in and out like a bullet, getting off like it’s a precision sport instead of something to be lingered over, savored.

Brad wonders what Nate sounds like when he comes. He probably tries to stay quiet, but his grey-green eyes inevitably fall shut, his pink mouth drops open in pleasure…

“ _Ouch_ ,” Missy yelps.

Brad automatically lets go of her hips. There are neat indentations in her skin where his nails dug in.

“Sorry, Missy," Brad says, shaking himself mentally. "Got distracted.”

“That so?” she asks coyly, looking over her shoulder and wiggling her ass at him.

Brad chuckles. He resumes his position behind her, placing one hand on her lower back and the other around his dick, guiding it towards her waiting pussy. Before he gets all the way inside though, another thud comes from Nate’s room. This time, it’s followed by Nate’s distinctive voice as he groans, _Fuck_.

Brad’s cock pulses in his hand. He quickly circles it at the base, squeezing tight to stave off the sudden throb.

“Hold on,” Brad grunts. He doesn’t want to fuck her like this anymore. “Your mouth—use your mouth.”

“That kind of night, huh?” Missy turns around and slides off the bed, falling to her knees until she’s looking up at Brad through dark lashes. “I don’t do this for just anyone, Sheriff.”

“I know, Missy, I know. Five extra, same as before. Now get _to_ , would you?”

Missy smiles one last time before pulling the rubber off with a snap and opening her painted lips to put them over Brad’s dick. At the warm sensation, he lets his head roll back and groans as she sucks her way down to where his fingers still clutch at the base.

Through the fog of pleasure, Brad still makes sure he can pay attention to everything going on next door. There’s a shuffle of noise and Brad hears Nate murmur something unintelligible, speaking too low to hear.

Brad closes his eyes, lets the sound of Nate’s voice wash over him. Missy does a good job getting his cock down her throat, and he moves his hands into her hair. Somehow the silky strands don’t feel right, so he slides them down to hold her ears instead as her head moves back and forth in his lap.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Brad says huskily, his own hips moving in rhythm to meet her lips with each thrust. His mind is elsewhere, though—caught up with the task of making sure he can still hear Nate’s every move next door, it’s suddenly _his_ ears he’s gripping, it’s _Nate’s_ throat gulping him down like he’s freshwater in a desert.

“Fuck,” Brad groans, curling forward until he has to catch himself with one hand on the bed. The other hand moves to the back of Missy’s head, keeping her mouth in place as he fucks into it helplessly.

Slick, suctioned noises come from Missy’s throat as he gets his dick into it, trying to make her take him to the root. She’s done it once before—Brad trusts she can do it again. “Deeper,” he coaxes, and he feels her swallow convulsively, her gullet opening up enough to let him sink all the way in.

“That’s it.” Brad pets the back of her hair, imagining it’s short bristles instead. Jesus, if it were Nate here, dirtying up his knees like a two-cent whore—if it were _Nate_ sucking Brad off with his mouth stretched wide, big eyes blinking up and watering from choking on Brad’s dick as he tries to swallow everything down…

“ _Fuck,_ Nate. I’m gonna—”

An angry clumping of footsteps echo through the wall and just as Brad teeters on the verge of coming, there’s a gunshot bang, the door to their room kicked wide open. The broken latch skitters uselessly to the ground.

Brad pulls himself back and throws Missy behind him as he whirls around to face their intruder.

In the doorway, Nate’s got one hand on the frame and the other balled up in a shaking fist beside him. “How dare you,” he says quietly between clenched teeth.

Brad tries to ignore how Nate’s fully dressed and buttoned-up proper while he’s sporting nothing but half-done trousers, cock jutting out from the fly and still gleaming wet from Missy’s devilish mouth. Ain’t like Nate’s noticing, though; his green eyes are fixed on Brad’s, challengingly.

“Missy, get out of here,” Brad says. Behind him, he hears Missy clumsily collect her clothes before dashing out the room under Nate’s arm.

Nate doesn’t blink. “How _dare_ you,” he repeats, striding into the room with the tension of a tightly coiled spring.

The accusatory fire in Nate’s eyes makes it difficult not to lash back, but Brad schools his face into indifference and lazily replies, “I don’t know what I did to get your shorts in a twist, Fick, but I sure as hell ain’t the one interrupting a personal business transaction between two law-abiding citizens.” 

Nate stalks forward and when he’s close enough, he hauls Brad aside and throws him against the wall, Brad’s back colliding with a loud smack.

Suddenly, Brad’s got his hands full of one very pissed-off Nathaniel Fick, who pushes a forearm against Brad’s throat hard enough to make it difficult to breathe.

Nate growls, “I’ve tolerated your busybodiness for days, now, even let you hold onto my gun until you got your head screwed on straight over this whole fucking mess, but I have my limits. And my _limit_ ends at you getting a room next to me at a whorehouse—” Nate presses in with his body, paying no heed to the way Brad’s cock is trapped between their stomachs. “—and calling my _fucking name out_ as you get your fucking dick serviced by the whore you paid extra to do the filthy shit.”

Nate drops his voice, low and dangerous. “Is that what you think about when you touch yourself? You think about me sucking your dick? Hardly original, you know. I know what my mouth looks like, and you sure as hell ain’t the first asshole wanting me to put it to use.”

The shock of his words makes Brad twitch so hard, it’s troubling. Shit, Brad’s done playing games, now. He’s done letting Nate dictate the situation.

In defiance, Brad grinds up against Nate, his hard dick a solid weight between their lower bellies. It works like a charm—Nate looks down distractedly like he’s only just noticed it, and Brad takes the opportunity to pry Nate’s arm off his neck. He twists around and, using his weight as leverage, slams Nate up against the very spot Brad just was.

“Mighty sure of ourselves, are we?” Brad growls, draping his body over Nate’s and bearing down so hard, Nate’s shoulder must feel like it’s about to pop right out. “Trust me, I’d take Missy’s deep-throating over yours any day. You probably suck cock like a wet fish. As for taking the room next to yours, you think I like moonlighting as your fucking shadow, Nate? All I want from you is a few simple answers, but if you ain’t gonna cooperate like a good little boy, I’m gonna have to get them out of you _somehow_.” Brad pushes down on his hold, eliciting a small gasp.

Nate’s a stubborn fucker though—says nothing and just goes back to struggling against Brad’s iron grip. “So it’s gonna be like that, huh?” Brad intones. “Well, how about this...instead of trying to get one straight fucking story from you, how about I tell _you_ what’s going on, and you just nod your pretty head yes or no.”

Brad takes Nate's silence as agreement. “You shot Bob Raleigh." The way Nate freezes under his grasp confirms this, and Brad continues, "Bob was trying to run off with Marla, but you wanted her for yourself. So you made sure you’d get to keep her, by killing off the competition."

Nate makes a scoffing noise but Brad gamely goes on, "Hell, I bet all them dead boys were with you. Hired guns? Scoundrel dope-pushers, the lot of them, I bet they jumped at the faintest whiff of your crisp, new greenbacks. Sure bet they didn't count on getting killed, though. Well, you got what you wanted, Nate. You done got your little piece of tail, and now you want me off your back so you can make tracks outta this town, don't you?"

Under Brad's relentless grip, Nate chooses to stay infuriatingly silent, revealing nothing. He’s even stopped squirming around. In the darkness of the room, the sun long having sunk below the horizon, Brad can only hear the sound of his own ragged breathing—can see only the back of Nate's bowed head, and even that sight's half-obscured by the low candlelight.

Finally, Nate lifts his head. He turns to the side, face shadowed in profile as he says softly, "Your reputation precedes you, Iceman. Fastest draw in Nevada, never lost a duel. Always hit what you're meaning to hit, but never gratuitous about it, never cruel. Simply cold as ice…s’how you got your nickname."

Brad blinks. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Nate goes on like he hadn’t heard him, picking up in volume and confidence, "You're supposed to be the quickest mind in the West, too, and the sharpest eyes in the whole damned country. Coming out to the frontier, you'd think the Iceman were a fucking deity or something, the stories people tell about you. Can't figure out what all the fuss is about, though. Quite frankly, I'm disappointed in what I've seen so far."

Brad tightens his grip on Nate's wrist, trying to claw back the advantage quickly tipping in Nate’s favor, but he’s disturbed by Nate’s words and they both fucking know it. Probably doesn’t help that’s Brad’s still hanging out from his trousers like laundry hung out to dry.

Brad swallows grimly, "And you call _me_ the busybody? You find out these fun facts from that piss-poor Injun you sicced on me?"

Nate's expression changes, his cocky mirth draining out like a bloodletting. "Someone’s trailing you?"

To Brad’s left, something captures his attention. It’s a glint coming off their window—chances are it’s just the dancing reflection of candlelight, but Brad trusts his gut and his gut's telling him otherwise.

“Sheriff?” Nate asks.

Brad’s eyes are still trained on the window though. He waits, holding himself statue-still until slowly, a face emerges from behind distant scaffolding. “There are men on the roofs,” Brad states, jerking Nate down to the hardwood floor and throwing himself on top just in time for their window to burst into a thousand pieces.

Beneath him, Nate's eyes are wide and surprised. Flying bullets or no, Brad returns his full concentration to Nate and picks up their conversation where they left off. "For all intents and purposes, I _am_ a fucking deity,” Brad hisses. “I am a fucking _warrior_. You ever stop to think, Nate, maybe it’s just you federal cocksucks fucking up this case for me?”

Nate's mouth opens and moves, but anything he’s saying gets drowned out by a second, much closer gunshot that hits the mattress behind them with an explosion of feathers. Outside their door, the screams of a panicked crowd float over the bone-rattling rumble of people fleeing the whorehouse all at once.

In the ensuing breath, Nate’s eyes lose their bewilderment and he barks, “Pull up your fucking pants, Sheriff. We need to move.”


	5. Chapter 5

Brad and Nate scramble through Sydney’s to the din of exploding wood and bullets zipping overhead. When they finally get outside, they take cover behind the first thing they see—an overturned cart.

“Can’t stay out here all night,” Nate huffs, ducking a blown chunk of wood that flies over his head. “Too many people around!”

Noble sentiments aside, Brad knows they sure as hell can’t stay here—the cart in front of them’s getting shwacked like a lumberjack’s log as they speak. Brad yells to be heard, “We’ll draw the Injuns outta town, move the fight somewhere fair!”

Nate nods. “Good idea. My horse is out back, but I’ll meet you here. Count of three—” Nate commands, when a burst of gunfire takes out the last peg of wood keeping their cart upright. Damned thing crashes magnificently into a hopeless pile of splinters and for a long, scary-still moment, they’re crouched in the swirling dust, nuts fully exposed. Brad hears Nate curse under his breath.

Like synchronized wind-ups, they both launch towards their respective steeds, keeping low to the ground as bullets pepper their heels.

Brad reaches his horse first and good ol’ Hummer stays stock-still, letting Brad clamber on with ease. Once astride, Brad pulls his Colt from his thigh holster and fires a few rounds into the dark, suppressing their invisible shooters long enough for Nate to come around to the front of Sydney's.

“Nate!” Brad shouts. “Where the fuck are you, you damned Yank?”

Nate comes running out on foot, his pale skin and clothes glowing like a beacon in the low moonlight. “I counted eight men. They’re mounting their rides,” Nate shouts, “And they took my damned horse!”

“Fuck,” Brad mutters, kicking Humvee into gear so that they trot over to where Nate’s standing around, useless with no gun or horse to save his hide. “Get your ass up here, you look like a bull’s eye glowing in the dark like that. We’ll get you somewhere safe.”

“That’s a negative, Sheriff. Those men are here for me,” Nate says adamantly. “I’m not involving you.”

Brad doesn’t even try to reason. Just walks Hummer over, moves Nate’s pistol from the back of his jeans to the front because otherwise that could get real uncomfortable for Nate real quick, then leans down mid-stride to grab him by the scruff of his neck and drag the Marshal along for a few tripping steps before Nate gripes loudly enough for Brad to let go.

“Smugness doesn’t become you,” Nate says from the ground, where Brad _knows_ Nate can’t see his face. He feels the smirk on his face grow.

Without free stirrups for Nate to boost up with, Brad offers down his hand. They lock wrists, Brad pulling him up in one long motion until they’re both seated in the curved saddle like two peas in a pod.

Nate fidgets like he don’t know where to put his hands and Brad’s about to say something teasing about their proximity—it’s there at the tip of his tongue—when the low thunder of hooves rolls ominously into the air.

All right, so no time for horseplay. Not now, at least. Brad grabs the reins with his free hand and whips them against Hummer’s flank with a cry of _ha!_ and they kick-start down the street. Behind him, Nate wobbles from the momentum but quickly catches himself by plastering to Brad’s back like paint on a wall, arms coming ‘round front. His long-fingered hands clasp together, resting low in Brad’s lap.

A little thrill shoots through Brad…mainly from the knowledge that eight bloodthirsty savages are riding towards them with intent to kill, but maybe also a little bit from Nate’s solid presence at his back. Warm puffs of air gust over the sensitive knob of Brad’s spine from Nate’s soft breathing.

Brad shivers. Nate notices and leans back—tries to scoot away, too, but the jostling of the ride just makes their hips bump back together.

They make for the eastern edge of town, breaking the Reno border into unsettled territory where street lamps don’t reach, just moon and stars washing over the familiar backdrop of Washoe terrain. In the barren air, the claps of gunfire chasing them sound ever-louder, ever-nearer.

Brad flattens himself against Hummer, twisting around as Nate smoothly leans to the side, letting Brad fire off a couple rounds. A strangled cry rises up—one down, seven to go.

Above the distant rumble of pursuers, a separate set of hooves suddenly gallops toward them, pulling up hard to Brad’s right side. He braces himself for a mounted duel when a loud, familiar voice pierces the air, “Whoa, watch where you point that thing!” 

It’s Ray. Of _course_ it’s Ray. “Ain’t you gotten yourself dead, yet?” Brad asks loudly.

“You’d cry yourself to sleep,” Ray retorts, when his ten-gallon gets punctured by a passing bullet. “ _Whoa,_ motherfucker!” Ray swings around and shoots off more bullets than strictly necessary, but the outlying roars of pain indicate some found themselves tidy homes.

“By the way, Brad, I tracked your Injun!”

“Come on, Ray, are we really doing this?” Brad calls, as Hummer gracefully jumps a ridge of brush in the dark. Not so gracefully, Nate’s arms bounce up and smack Brad in the chin. Rolling his eyes, he adds, “Are we _seriously_ having tea-time conversation while our asses get lit up by a flotilla of lunatic savages?”

“Word to the motherfucking yeah, Brad! I found your biggest fan, Meesh— _whoo-whee,_ did he talk to this Beretta!” As if to make a point, Ray shoves his arm out and lobs a few rounds before continuing, “Turns out all these murderous Injuns are just following the sweet scent of fresh pussy. Their leader’s some Apache squaw named Cocheta. Must be some hot piece of ass, all these guys breaking out of the reservation down in Ojo Caliente to chase her! Gotta give ‘em props for being such horny motherfuckers!”

“And the dope?” Brad asks. He feels Nate lean closer, probably hoping to catch what comes next.

It’s hard enough to listen as is, but the rest of Ray’s diatribe gets drowned out by new riders coming up to Brad’s left. The panting of hard-ridden horses resonates louder and louder, but when Brad turns around to look, he’s glad to find that it’s just his men. He counts ‘em—Poke, Walt, and Rudy with his shirt off— _what the fuck?_ —all galloping in a line, letting off slugs like the ammo’ll explode in their guns if they sit too long.

“Nice night!” Brad yells in salutation. Rudy pumps his fist into the air and Walt lets loose a spirited _yee-haw!_

Invigorated, Brad spurs his horse to a higher speed. He re-joins the fight with a deafening _bang_ from his peacemaker, gunpowder sparking at the muzzle. In the shadowy light, he sees another target hunch over and slide off his horse.

 _Like fish in a barrel,_ Brad thinks, lifting his gun to take aim again.

When he pulls, the trigger clicks empty. “Shit,” he swears, and it’s right then that he feels Nate’s hands tugging on the Outlaw stuck down the front of Brad’s jeans. The barrel catches on the waistband, however, so Nate slides his hand along the muzzle—into Brad’s trousers—and tries to wriggle the gun out with firm fingers.

“Shit,” Brad cusses again, though for wholly different reason. “The fuck you doing, Nate?”

“I want my gun,” Nate replies in a punched-out voice that sounds way too close, his lips grazing Brad’s ear. 

Brad jerks his head away, forcing himself with difficulty to focus as he tosses back, “Forget it, it ain’t loaded! Use my Pocket Navy, left ankle. And grab me a loaded cylinder while you’re down there.”

Nate obediently withdraws his hands and Brad bites back his disappointment. He’s still frustrated from Missy’s unfinished blowjob back at Sydney’s, and plain pissed he didn’t get to blow his load before this whole clusterfuck came about.

Nate drops to the side, stretching down Brad’s leg with a flexibility that makes Brad’s breath quicken. He goes straight for the ankle holster, yanking up Brad’s pant leg to get at the gun there.

At just .31 caliber, the Pocket Navy’s no guaranteed death-dealer like the Colt .45 or Nate’s Army Outlaw, but it’ll do in a pinch. Nate works the piece out of its holster, then procures the extra cylinder from Brad’s side bag faster than an eyeblink. 

Brad proffers the reins so Nate can steer while Brad reloads, but strong arms come around his waist and Nate reaches for Brad's Colt instead. He wraps his hands around it, ignoring the tight grip already there, and swaps the cylinder out with an efficiency that suggests experience.

"Thanks," Brad says a bit breathlessly. Nate doesn't respond, just squeezes Brad's fist one last time before launching into a cowboy move that done stops Brad’s heart for a stretching moment, the kid throwing himself up in the air as he twists around to plunk back down, this time facing backwards in the saddle with his shoulder blades digging against Brad's.

Brad hears him take one—two—three shots into the night, clean and calculated in a frankly impressive display.

The Injun assault lessens significantly after that, and around him Brad hears his men take out the rest of the straggling party with ease.

Brad's in no way surprised at the outcome of the waning firefight, but that don't make it any less of a relief to have the doggone bullets finally cease chasing ‘em like a swarm of angry hornets. Before long, only the sound of pounding hooves and panting horses rolls through the dry, Washoe air.

Up ahead, a shadow of a building looms up on the horizon. It’s Brad’s ranch, sitting pretty like the sweet dame she is. Hummer must’ve led them here instinctually.

Brad slows Humvee to a canter, cognizant of his horse's sweaty flank and spent breath while the other riders pace him in the wind-down. Together they keep silent and focused; nothing like a fierce firefight to drum out the swagger from a bunch of loudmouthed cowboys.

Behind Brad, Nate's since maneuvered around to face front again, but his breathing's harsh and his arms around Brad's waist are worryingly limp and ineffectual. When they approach Brad’s land, Hummer slows to a trot before curving into a gradual, final stop in front of the porch. Nate lists dangerously to the right and Brad quickly holsters his gun, reaching back to clamp onto Nate's leg for fear the kid'll slide right off like a sack of potatoes.

Brad immediately dismounts, paying no heed to stabling Hummer even as the other men walk their horses to the other end of the porch where they can tie up their steeds to the wooden bar out front.

Still atop Humvee, Nate’s made no indication he’s anything but just plumb tired, but Brad knows something’s up.

“Nate,” Brad says, holding out his hand. Nate ignores it and swings his leg easily over the side to jump down.

He stumbles a bit though, and Brad has to keep himself from dashing forward like a handwringing dicksuck. He swallows thickly, watching Nate dust himself off with one hand, the other still holding on to Brad’s Pocket Navy.

“Fick, you all right?” Brad asks, eyes roving over Nate’s body. It’s too damned dark to tell if the kid’s been hit—too many layers of clothing to catch sight of any wound.

“Jus’ fine,” Nate replies, but the sharp inhalation after that makes him sound about anything _but_ fine.

Brad strides forward and brusquely begins to pat him down. Nate protests, saying some shit about how he’s perfectly all right and how he just needs directions to the closest inn so he can get some shut-eye, but when Brad thumps against Nate’s inner thigh, his words end on a hiss.

From the other side of the ranch, Brad sees his men filter out en cadre. He lifts his head and calls out, “Fick’s been shot.”

Poke rounds up, wincing in sympathy. “Shit, dog.”

Rudy gets there next and moves in front of Brad, dropping down to one knee to inspect the damage. The muscles shift back and forth under Rudy’s gleaming skin as he gently reaches out and feels around the punctured fabric of Nate’s trousers. 

Brad watches stoically for a minute but impatience quickly wins out and he nudges Rudy aside, crouching down to take over the job.

“Shit, they didn’t get your dick, did they?” Ray comes up behind Poke. “Because that would fucking suck. Oh man, can you imagine if—”

“Ray,” Brad says curtly. “Take care of Hummer for me, would ya? I’m busy.” He doesn’t bother to make eye contact, but he can practically see the knowing expression on his deputy’s whisky tango, inbred face as Ray pauses significantly before pivoting back around with the loud scrape of grit under his boots.

“We should get him to Doc’s,” Walt suggests. “See if he’s still awake.”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Nate argues. “I can clean myself up if you would all stop hovering like nursemaids.”

“Doc’s out,” Poke replies, ignoring Nate completely. “He left for a house call in Silver Springs yesterday, not supposed to be back ‘til the weekend.”

“Well, any one of us can patch him up for now,” Rudy says. “I got a bottle of Phoenix Bitters at my house, and a bed—”

“I’m taking him,” Brad interrupts, standing up to his full height. His eyes don't leave Nate's, and Nate blinks up in a priceless expression that borders somewhere between exasperation and relief. Brad adds, “We’re here already. Plus, that bullet would’ve been mine if it didn’t go through Fick first, so he’s my responsibility.”

The tone of his voice begs no room for dissent. With a collective shrug and murmurs of good luck, the Washoe police slowly disband, leaving Nate and Brad alone in the night.

“Come on,” Brad says, stepping in to pull one of Nate’s arms over his shoulders. Surprisingly, Nate keeps his attitude in check and Brad says, quieter this time, “This way.”


	6. Chapter 6

When the two of them enter Brad's spartan house, Nate starts acting cagey.

"Look, Sheriff. I'm serious when I say this isn't necessary. You can't hold me here like one of your prisoners—"

Brad sighs loudly and sets Nate down on the edge of his single bed so he can reach over into his nightstand to pull out a pair of handcuffs.

"—and I’m not some helpless girl who needs to be coddled, I can—" Nate pauses to look down at his wrist, which is now cuffed to the metal rack of the bed's headboard. "What the fuck?" he asks blankly.

"You sound like one of my belly achin' officers," Brad replies. "Least this way, you ain't got any say, so just sit yer ass down and let me clean this up in peace."

Nate opens his mouth as if to argue, but when Brad raises an eyebrow he shuts his trap and pinks a little. The sight brings Brad no small degree of pleasure.

Now that he’s sure Nate won’t make a (limping) run for it, Brad ambles into the kitchen, calling out behind him, "Make yourself useful, get your trousers off." He rummages through the cupboards for his emergency kit to the sound of Nate’s rustling, the handcuff jangling loudly from the bedroom.

When Brad comes back with supplies in hand, Nate’s kicking his trousers to the ground. Brad’s mouth goes dry… as it turns out, not-so-innocent Nate's been free-balling this whole time. 

Nate stops fussing and looks up at him with baleful eyes while Brad's gaze wanders south. He takes in the sight of loose shirttails that give way to Nate’s slim hips, which taper into indents that point like a fucking arrow to the thatch of hair between Nate’s legs—hair a shade darker than the sun-bleached bristles on his head—and finally stops at the sight of Nate’s cock, which is soft between pale, parted thighs. On his right leg, the bullet wound is a messy smear of red. 

Brad looks back up to meet Nate’s embarrassed gaze. Even in the sparse candlelight, he can see Nate’s flush extend from his face down to the open collar of his button-down shirt.

"Jesus, Brad,” Nate eventually says. “Would you get on with it? Maybe 'fore I bleed out on your bed?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just appreciating the fact that, underneath all that righteousness, you're just a kinky little fucker like the rest of us."

Nate pauses. "It's hot in Nevada," he explains simply, leaning back on his hands so that his legs fall open a bit wider.

Fuck, Brad's not in the right mindset for this. He needs to clean Nate up and put him the fuck to bed before he does something they'll both regret. That, then maybe lock himself in the outhouse to pull off once or twice before trying to fall asleep with the worst case of blue balls he's had in years, while a gorgeous—what? He's got _eyes_ —piece of ass sits handcuffed to his bed not two feet away.

“Sheriff?”

Brad steels himself and crouches down in front of Nate, saying, "Stay still," though it might as well be to himself for Brad’s hands are jittery as they dunk a washcloth into a bucket of water with a little splash.

Brad puts a hand on Nate’s inner knee and slowly pushes it aside to settle between Nate’s legs. He draws the cloth out of the water, squeezing some excess liquid out before gently patting at the bloodied area with it until the small wound’s revealed.

The bullet didn’t hit anything too important, no busted arteries or anything more precious that that. On the other hand, there’s no sign of an exit wound so the lead’s probably still buried inside.

Nate seems to sense what’s coming as Brad reaches into his kit for a pair of tweezers. He tenses up like he’s expecting a punch, and Brad automatically rubs his hand where it’s still on Nate’s knee, gentling him like he’s Humvee, antsy and unhappy before a brewing thunderstorm.

Brad pulls out the tweezers and steadies his grip on it, then gets the tips into the wound without delay. Above him, Nate bites back a grunt, and when Brad prods around for the bullet, Nate starts panting like he’s running miles.

Hoping some small talk will calm the both of ‘em down, Brad says shakily, "So you wanna tell me why you got a pack of escaped Apaches on your ass?"

Nate seems to welcome the diversion as he huffs back, “Ha fucking no, I ain’t telling you shit, Sheriff.”

“You know, you’d do well not to piss me off right now. I got this thing inside you, Nate, might not be my fault if it takes me awhile to pull out.”

At the lack of any reply, Brad glances up in time to catch Nate biting his lip in pain and fuck, that sure ain’t helping matters any. Brad continues, “Seriously, don’t you think I’m plenty involved by now? Might save my ass to know what’s goin’ on instead of just getting shot at willy-nilly.”

“Far as I’m concerned,” Nate grits out, “Ain’t none of those Indians caught your scent yet.”

“Need I remind you of our little friends tonight?” Brad asks, pleased when he finally latches onto the bullet with the tips of his tongs.

“Need I remind you ain’t none of ‘em still alive?” Nate sasses back.

Brad grins, comfortable in their banter. “You do realize, Meesh is still out there, and he’ll probably sell us over the water as soon as he finds a higher asking price.” Never mind Deputy Person took care of that little liability, throwing Meesh hog-tied and bundled into the back of an eastbound freight. Nate doesn’t need to know that.

“All the more reason to keep the Washoe police at a distance,” Nate gasps as Brad finally works out the bullet from his thigh. 

Triumphant, Brad holds the lead up to the light for Nate to see. The bullet’s about wide as a pinky finger and smashed on one side, the whole thing tinged red. Nate dazedly looks at it before moving his attention to Brad, smiling weakly but genuinely.

Brad feels something tug in his chest. Shit, it ain’t fair how pretty Nate is for a guy—he’s beginning to understand why everyone complains about Deputy Reyes so much.

Brad tosses the bullet into a nearby bin with a clatter and sets about threading the curved needle he’s got. “You don't have to worry yourself over my hide,” Brad eventually says. 

Nate snorts in realization that he’s having his own words parroted back at him. “This is different,” he says. “You thought I’d have trouble taking care of my own ass just wandering around Reno. That’s hardly the same as a group of wanted criminals trying to get you dead.”

“You honestly think something piddling like a ragtag tribe of Injuns, lead by a _woman_ no less, is enough to scare us? Come on Nate, you seen my boys in action. Give us a little credit.”

“You don’t know what—” Nate’s leg twitches as Brad inserts the needle into his flesh. “—what she’s capable of.”

“Cocheta, you mean?” Brad asks, remembering Ray’s quick debriefing from earlier.

Saying the name aloud— _Cocheta_ —triggers a sudden dawning of realization, slow but complete like a rag soaking up water. Brad says incredulously, “She was there, wasn’t she? She was the one selling dope to Bob Raleigh.” He pauses, thinking back to the overhead conversation between Nate and his presumed partner, back at The Copper Tavern. “She was the one you couldn’t bring yourself to shoot.”

Nate freezes. It could be from Brad stitching him up like he’s a torn hole in someone’s shirt, but Brad knows better. 

“Any particular reason you let her go?” Brad asks. He continues sewing, knowing Nate’s got nothing left to hide. He’ll speak up eventually and sure enough, a heavy sigh comes from above.

“Do _you_ enjoy gunning down women?” Nate replies.

Brad frowns. It’s not an answer and they both know it.

Less sarcastically, Nate adds, “Besides, nobody cares how we get the job done so long as it gets done. We’re closing in on Cocheta. Even as we speak, Gunny’s out there tracking her down. I give it a day or two before we’re packing up for home.”

Something unpleasant flares up as Brad. “With Gunny, huh?”

He plans to leave it at that, but Nate’s quick to ask, “Something you want to say, Sheriff?”

Brad looks up from his work. He doesn’t want to get into this, but Nate’s asking, and Brad’s not one to mince words. “I saw the place, Nate. You can’t tell me there weren’t two of you, and one fucking bed.”

Nate sends a sharp look that Brad refuses to cower under. “Not that it’s any of your business, Sheriff, but the United States Marshals Service doesn’t exactly operate with full coffers. We all pay our own way on the job, whether it’s jail space for prisoners or our own sleeping quarters.”

“And what, a two dollar up-charge sends you diving for the nearest warm body?” Brad glares. He knows he’s being impudent, but seriously—what the hell kind of servicemen sleep in the same fucking cot?

“Jesus, Brad,” Nate says, clearly incensed. “I take the floor half the time—Mike gets it the other half. Do you even _realize_ what you’re implying?” 

Nate stares unblinkingly, daring Brad to say something…but shit, Brad knows when he’s fucked up. Christ almighty, something about Nate makes Brad’s common sense fly out the fucking window.

He drops his eyes, picking up the needle to continue the task he’d abandoned halfway through accusing Nate of something totally unwarranted. 

Brad finishes up the last few stitches, letting the passing time soften the tension of their last exchange before saying, “What kinda ass-backwards, confused little Injun princess comes after an entire police force with a circus troupe of unskilled grunts, anyway?” It’s meant to be an apology, and he hopes Nate takes it as such.

Nate chuckles softly. “Desperation,” he answers easily. “Cocheta’s been evading the Army for months, but since the Service got put on the case, it’s only a matter of time before she’s caught. Still, unless we stop the opium too, all that drug money’s just gonna get siphoned away to other bands trying to stay off the reservations. Cocheta’s been gaining a lot of traction in the community and with all that money and power, she’s got some Americans on her side, too. Makes her all the more dangerous.”

“Americans like Bob Raleigh?” Brad quickly ties a knot off at the base of the thread and snips it off. Leans back on his haunches to observe his work. It’ll do. He reaches behind him for the ball of gauze he’s got in his kit.

“Yeah, guys like Bob.”

“So you killed him,” Brad states, glancing up to meet Nate’s level gaze.

Nate watches him for a moment, but seems to sense no accusation in the words and so he nods in response.

Brad thinks about the woman Bob Raleigh left behind. He thinks about Nate and Marla in the room next door at Sydney’s. “And then you fucked his mistress,” Brad adds darkly.

Nate doesn’t smile, but his eyes crinkle up a bit at the corners. “You know, Sheriff, if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you were jealous.”

Brad lets his expression slack to the half-lidded gaze of the unamused.

Nate smiles for real this time, a little shy one that shows his upper teeth and he looks down abashedly. Brad feels that strange tug return—a mixture of pride and affection. Pride that Brad could elicit that reaction, and affection for Nate, just because. 

Disinclined to think further on the subject, Brad just lets himself enjoy it like a cat in the sun. A flush starts to grow on Nate’s cheeks and Brad realizes, belatedly, that it’s only there because Brad’s staring.

Jesus Christ on a cracker, he’s got no clue when he went and grew a pussy, but there it is. Brad swallows grimly and sets about wrapping Nate’s leg up. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can leave the room and recon some fucking scraps of sanity. Lord knows he needs 'em.

\-----

In the ensuing calm, the only sounds that can be heard are the quiet ones Brad makes as he rolls gauze around Nate’s thigh.

“I didn’t do anything, you know,” Nate softly breaks the silence.

Brad stills, lifting his eyes from his handiwork to shoot a blank look that prompts Nate to clarify, “I didn’t fuck her. Just…wanted to tell her in person that I was the one who killed Bob. She took it really well—said she didn’t blame me. Even helped by telling me Cocheta caught wind we were in town, got spooked.”

Nate picks at invisible lint on the blanket for long moments. He seems determined not to meet Brad’s eyes. 

Eventually—belatedly—Brad replies, “Oh.”

Nate sighs and lists backwards until his elbows hit the mattress. His head dips back behind his shoulders and at the sight of the soft underbelly of Nate’s chin, Brad returns to the task of bandaging Nate up.

His thoughts, however, begin to wander.

All right, so Nate didn’t fuck Marla. So what? Where Nate decides to stick his dick has fuck-all to do with Brad, yet the simple admission brings up a tangle of feelings that got no right being there. 

Relief, mostly. A little giddiness, too.

Brad scissors off the gauze and works a safety pin into the end of it, securing the binding neatly. Doesn’t remove his hand though—instead, absent-mindedly runs his thumb along the edge of the cloth as he thinks.

It accounts for the noises next door at Sydney’s. He distinctly remembers Nate cursing, probably after he found out Cocheta was ditching Reno. Those guttural noises had interrupted Brad’s perfectly straightforward blowjob by conjuring up some mishmash of Nate on his knees instead of Marla, Nate’s eyes watering as his mouth sank down to kiss his belly, chin against his balls…

However, that strange little daydream mid-suck had evaporated like summer rain on sun-hot rocks when the real Nate barged into the room, fuming and so irate like all he wanted to do was skin Brad alive for following him around.

The wooden slats of Brad’s bed makes a creaking noise as Nate shifts on it, head coming up to see what the hold-up is. Only then does Brad notice his hand’s migrated to stroke the taut tendon of Nate’s groin.

“Brad,” Nate says gruffly. 

The roughness of the sound surprises him, and when Brad looks up to find Nate watching him with hooded eyes, his cock slowly hardening under Brad’s distracted stroking—

 _Shit,_ Brad thinks, snatching his hand back like Nate’s on fire.

Nate bites his lip. He looks disappointed.

Well, he looks more than disappointed—looks downright frustrated, actually, and it’s that transparency in his expression that clears things up, quick like a strike of lightning. In fact, Brad hardly knows why it took this long to realize…

This here, Brad on his knees? Nate wants this. Nate wants _him_.

Sure explains what went down at Sydney’s too. Hell, Nate might’ve teased him about being jealous, but Brad’s not the one who plumb busted down a door off its hinges to stop him from fucking someone else.

Brad breaks out into a grin. He can feel his canines digging into his lower lip and, judging from what people have told him in the past, he probably looks like he’s about to have Nate for dinner.

The longer Brad stares, the more wary Nate turns as he starts worrying his lower lip with his teeth. It’s making Brad’s mouth water.

He feels himself drifting closer to where Nate’s sprawled, knees wide open, cock lying hard and pink against his belly. Brad has to shut his eyes from the sheer wantonness of the sight, but it don’t stop him from ducking his head down to nuzzle the closest stretch of warmth he can find.

He homes in by touch and scent alone, Nate radiating heat and smelling of sweat, though musky sweet beneath it all. He winds up somewhere baby-soft—the exposed skin above Nate’s fresh bandage, at his thigh. Brad's nose lands at the crease where Nate’s leg begins.

Against his face, lined up on his left cheek, Nate’s cock feels smooth and hot.

 _Fuck_ , Brad thinks, turning to drag his lips over the silky length of it. He can’t help it—while the foreignness of being this close to another man’s cock is pretty fucking weird, it’s like he’s gone blind or something. Just knows he wants more warmth, more taste, more _Nate_.

He nips at the base of Nate’s dick. Through the thin, heated skin Brad’s burrowed against, he feels Nate’s pulse quicken.

God, it’s good. It’s really, _really_ good. While sure, Nate tastes like day-old ball sweat, underneath that he tastes like residual soap—like hard-earned work and sunshine, like sex. It’s so fucking hot, Brad could probably get off right now by rutting against one of Nate’s ankles.

Instead of anything so moronic, however, Brad lightly drops down, kissing the loose skin at Nate’s balls, rolling it playfully between his lips. When he hears Nate moan something filthy, Brad opens his mouth to take an entire globe into his mouth. 

He suckles at the heft of it for a long, satisfying moment. The light hairs are soft against Brad’s tongue, the taste salty but addictive. Or maybe it’s just Nate’s small noises above him that are addictive. Regardless, Brad doesn’t switch to take the other one in until Nate kicks him with a sharp heel to the backside.

He’s just beginning to _really_ enjoy himself, trousers growing tight in front, when Nate gasps his name, loud and desperate. Brad groans around his mouthful, everything vibrating between his lips. Nate mewls like he’s dying.

God damn, that noise _does_ things to Brad. He wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the night seeing just how many ways he can tempt that sound from Nate—maybe make him call out, too. For all Brad knows, Nate’s a right screamer in bed. S’usually the innocent-looking ones, ain’t it?

Eager to test his theory, Brad licks one last broad swipe across each of Nate’s balls before moving up to press his lips back against the belly of Nate’s dick. Nate twitches and Brad smiles against skin.

He doesn’t want to be a cocktease though, not when Brad’s fully aware of how tenuous the situation is. He better keep Nate delirious with want, because once Nate’s back to using his brain, he’ll probably kick Brad flat on his ass and order him to stay the fuck away. Possibly with another clock to the jaw.

Brad quickly dispels the unpleasant thought, much preferring what’s right in front of him: Nate’s dick is an angry red now, leaking at the tip. Brad laps at it, Nate yelping in surprise. The clear fluid’s oddly slick on his tongue, drawing a string of liquid that doesn’t break as Brad pulls his head back, but he likes the reaction he gets and quickly does it again. And again. Then once more.

“Brad,” Nate eventually bites out. “Quit playing. I’m gonna come in your eye if you keep that shit up.”

“Bossy, bossy,” Brad drawls rebelliously, but in truth he finds the idea sort of appealing in a tawdry way. Still, Nate’s not the only one eager to get a move on. Brad’s painfully hard himself.

He makes his move. Without warning, Brad takes as much of Nate into his mouth as he can, swallowing down eagerly. Nate’s good leg kicks out a little and his thighs start to squirm around Brad’s head which is, sure, a real fucking turn-on, but Nate also keeps hitting Brad’s gag reflex, which is seriously uncomfortable.

Brad rises up to his knees, holding Nate’s hips down with two braced hands to keep them still. Brad lifts his head, too, but keeps his lips parked just over the helmet of Nate’s prick.

It gives him the breathing room he needs to quickly assess how best to proceed. Rather than letting Nate get himself off by using Brad’s mouth as a prop, Brad wants to _make_ it happen. He excels at everything he does, and if giving an amazing suckjob is gonna be a part of that repertoire, better believe he’s gonna be so good Nate’s never gonna get his dick sucked again without wishing it was Brad.

Nate kicks him again, impatient, so Brad quickly wraps his hand around the length below his stretched lips and slides down, using his spit to get that nice, slippery feeling he always appreciates when it’s him on the other side.

Brad knows he’s doing _something_ right when Nate’s dick twitches in his mouth, and a little spurt of precum lands on his tongue. It tastes weird, kinda salty, but he ain’t gonna back out now. Brad just keeps moving, instructing himself. _Up. Down. Up. Down._

It takes a little while for him to get a smooth rhythm going, ‘specially with the way Nate keeps bucking right out of his grip each time some air gets in and Brad makes a particularly lewd slurp, but once he gets the hang of it, it’s real good and real fun.

Nate’s getting louder now, choked-off noises between wet, heavy breathing, and Brad’s beginning to think he hit a bull’s eye in suspecting Nate of being a screamer. Brad bobs his head faster now, jacking his hand real quick ‘cause he wants to make Nate come, wants to confirm his theory beyond a doubt.

“Fuck—” Nate pants. “Almost there. Just— _fucking_ —”

Brad tries to up his game, the incessant drooling more than enough lube to pump his fist even faster against Nate’s cock, but more and more time’s passing with nothing _going_ , just Brad’s jaw getting sore and Nate grunting at him in frustration. Behind them, the relentless clanking of Nate’s handcuff against the headboard is starting to sound frantic and a little ridiculous.

A hand comes up to the back of Brad’s head and it’s Nate, impatient and reckless as he jerks his hips off the bed and shoves Brad deeper onto his cock.

“Come _on,_ Sheriff,” Nate growls.

Brad’s vision goes all sorts of blurry, and Nate’s cock is unyielding and harsh against his throat. He starts to gag on it with embarrassing, squelching noises and Nate seems to sense he’s gone too far, hand lifting immediately to tangle in the bedspread.

Brad hastily resurfaces, mouth coming up with a stringy departure. His fist follows, jacking a straight shot up Nate’s prick with all the fluid left there from Brad’s messy sucking, but instead of taking his hand all the way off Brad pauses at the tip, then squeezes back down with an exaggerated twist of his wrist.

Nate shouts.

Brad relishes the way Nate’s flesh feels greased under his tight grip, and when he twists back up to the tip, this time it ain’t just his own fist he’s pulling up. 

It catches Brad by surprise—Nate too, from the sound of it—and the first squirt of come splatters somewhere under his chin. He quickly draws back to sit on his heels, but not before the second jet catches Brad on the face, a warm stripe landing on his left cheek.

Brad fists Nate’s spurting cock all the way through his orgasm, the other hand clamped on Nate’s good thigh. 

Fuck, even just _watching_ Nate come is almost enough to trigger his own release. Brad’s prick is overheated and uncomfortable in his jeans, and the slightest movement he makes has it rubbing against the cotton of his shorts. It’s driving him mad.

Nate’s balls are hardly done emptying before Brad’s hurriedly undoing his own fly with his clean hand. He shoves the cursed denim down over his ass, dragging his underwear down with it into an ungainly tangle around his ankles before he kicks them off to who-knows-where.

Brad’s up on the bed in an instant, kneeing his way up Nate’s torso until he’s straddling him, holding himself with a tight grip just above his balls so he don’t come prematurely all over Nate’s fine clothes.

“Get it off,” Brad grunts. “Your shirt. Get your fucking shirt open, Nate.”

Nate still looks pretty punched out, but he obliges with fumbling fingers of his free hand that reveal—much too slowly, like this is some damned striptease—pale, milky-smooth skin from his chest down to his navel. When he’s done, Nate falls back on the bed with a bounce and holds his shirt open, spread out like a sacrifice.

Brad closes his eyes. If he keeps looking, he’s gonna shoot too soon. 

As it stands, Brad gets his right hand on himself, slicking up with the excess of Nate’s come, which is all over his fingers. There’s a lot spilled on the backside of them too, so Brad wipes his knuckles to get all of it onto his dick.

Brad opens his eyes. Nate’s staring back at him—well, staring at Brad’s lap and the right mess he’s making down there with a gob-smacked expression on his face.

Brad realizes how this must look. Now that the fog of sex has passed, Nate’s left with nothing but come drying on his belly and a half-naked man about to jizz all over his chest. 

Brad leans down, closer to Nate—buckles down to one elbow beside Nate’s ribcage, the other hand still squeezing the base of his dick.

He opens his mouth to say something reassuring, but at that moment—close enough to catch the scent of Nate on his tongue—Brad realizes he wants to kiss him instead. Lord knows how fucking flower-picking, wine-sipping, Molly _homosexual_ the idea is, but _fucking hell_ , Brad wants to kiss Nate.

He doesn’t. Nate looks shocked enough as is, so Brad just says, in a whisper for fear his voice might reveal too much—

“This okay?”

Nate’s eyes remain wide, his throat visibly working as he swallows apprehensively, but the small nod he gives is clear as day.

Brad lets himself go, finally. His eyes fall shut as he works himself with the viscous come in his grasp, and it only takes a few quick, hard jacks before he’s marking Nate with his own pent-up release. Doesn’t know if he cries out or anything; there’s a loud, high-pitched ringing in Brad’s ears as he feels his dick pulse four—five times in his hand before petering out to aftershocks that dribble out in leisurely throbs.

When he feels a trail of wetness leak down to his fingers, Brad tiredly opens his eyes.

The sight he’s greeted with makes his stomach drop. Nate’s covered in more spunk than Brad’s wrung out of himself since he were a teenager—though, to be fair, some of it is probably Nate’s, either from his earlier release or dripped off Brad’s hand. 

Regardless, there’s come spattered up Nate’s stomach, his chest, his neck.

Brad follows the trails with hungry eyes. The liquid blend into Nate’s skin where he’s pale from being covered up by clothes, but contrasts thick and white where he’s tanned from the sun, like at his neck.

Brad flicks his eyes up to Nate’s face, feels his chest clench at the high flush he sees there.

Fuck—there’s even a little dab of come _there_ , in a shiny spot right next to the corner of Nate’s lips.

Brad leans down on both his elbows then, careful not to drip onto his bedspread or to lean on Nate and get cooling jizz all over his shirtfront. He scoots up a bit until they’re face-level, takes a minute to find his target, then lowers his mouth and hovers for a long, delicious moment where Nate tenses up beneath him before Brad darts his tongue out, lapping up the stray bit of come.

Nate starts, then smiles a little self-consciously, averting his gaze, and it’d be funny if it didn’t stir up something so strong, it takes Brad by surprise. It’s like there ain’t enough oxygen all of a sudden—he feels lightheaded. Nothing bad, just off-center. Feels like he’s standing onshore and there’s saltwater rushing around his ankles, clawing back into the ocean as he moves backwards without really moving at all.

Shit. That can’t be good. The last time he felt anything remotely like this around somebody, he got twin stabs in the back as his ex-fiancée started fucking his best friend. And while Brad knows Nate ain’t her—that Nate sure as hell won’t betray Brad, not least because there won’t _be_ any promises for him to break—it don’t make the involuntary dread any less palpable when it kicks in.

All this here, Nate Fick in his bed and smelling of Brad, s’just a lark, a flight of fancy. Something that’ll pass quicker than a summer thunderstorm. Their story’s got but one possible ending—an _end_ —and it don’t really matter how they get there. 

Rather than being hobbling, however, the knowledge makes Brad's heart race. Makes him feel reckless.

Underneath him, Nate’s lips are bitten red. Brad’s sick of just looking though—been staring at Nate’s damned mouth ever since they met, if he’s being honest with himself—wants to know how they feel underneath his own. Wants to know how Nate _tastes,_ and not just his cock, but how _all_ of Nate tastes.

Brad lowers his mouth, holding it just above Nate’s. Nate’s eyes are still open. His exhales puff against Brad’s face until they suddenly don’t anymore, and Brad realizes in a cold shock of wonder, it's because Nate’s holding his breath.

Brad kisses him.


	7. Chapter 7

Nate’s mouth is…Jesus fuck, it feels exactly how it looks—fucking _sinful,_ that is.

His lips are moist, plump, and it feels so good for Brad to just be there, drinking him in. Nate’s heat radiates through his mouth, blood running hot, and underneath all that softness and warmth there’s a hint of teeth that hardens against his own as Brad sinks into the kiss like it's quicksand.

That’s when Nate freezes.

Brad keeps his mouth in place but drags his hand towards Nate. _Stay with me,_ he thinks, lightly thumbing Nate's cheekbone. Nate doesn’t respond, but neither does he break away, so Brad seizes the opportunity to hastily deepen the kiss, nursing it, opening his mouth against Nate’s in silent entreaty to be allowed in. He runs the tip of his tongue over the ridges of Nate’s teeth.

Wrong move. Nate rips away with a wet, parting noise.

“Sheriff,” he protests as Brad dips back down to chase the word with a single-mindedness he’s usually rewarded for, but Nate just turns his cheek and says shakily, “Get off.”

Brad pauses, but he doesn’t move away for a long time, content to search Nate’s face for any lingering suggestion he can get back in there and do his self-assigned job of kissing the living daylights out of Nate.

“Get _off,_ Brad.” Nate says mulishly, sending a stern look that Brad's become pretty acquainted with lately—knows the danger lurking beneath it, so sighs and rolls off to the side. Stands up from the bed and walks into the kitchen.

He returns clean and jizz-free, carrying some wetted towels for Nate who reaches out for them with his uncuffed arm, but Brad just shakes his head and holds the towels up.

“Now, Nate. Don’t fuss,” Brad enunciates in a henpecking voice. It’s the one he usually adopts when his men are acting like retards.

Nate goggles at him for a moment before breaking into a quiet, incredulous chuckle. “Not fussing.”

Brad simply knees back onto the bed again, painfully aware of how they were just here….pushes the useless thoughts from his head and sets about mopping Nate down like he’s swabbing a seaboard. Makes sure to dig into Nate's bellybutton to clean out the little pool of come there, which has Nate curl up like a caterpillar to stifle a laugh.

When Nate's about as clean as he's gonna get without a proper bath, Brad throws the sticky towels on his nightstand and sets about getting extra bedding from his cupboard to arrange on the floor. His place is small, so the only free space where he can still keep an eye on Nate is against his dresser, next to the bed.

Nate watches in silence for awhile, before offering, "I'll take the floor."

"Nothing to cuff you to, on the floor.”

Nate chuckles wryly, ducking his head in admission. He scoots his ass higher up on the bed and kicks at the lip of tightly tucked sheets, trying to worm his feet inside. Brad watches him struggle for what's probably a socially unacceptable length of time, but he could really give two shits because the sight's damned amusing. Nate looks like some newborn fawn, limbs operating individual of each other—one leg stiff with pain while his left wrist remains tied to the bed's metal posts, clanking merrily along as he squirms all the way in.

Nate finally gets somewhat situated, curled on his side and facing the wall. But almost immediately, he turns to look at Brad where he's just about done laying out his grave for the night. Nate shakes his shackled wrist. “I really can’t get this off, can I?"

"No."

The sharp inhale Nate makes probably means he’s got something to say about that, but he seems to think better of it and lies back down, posture relaxing.

Brad, on the other hand, is about as far from relaxed as a man can get.

He settles down on top of his blankets—still damned hot despite the late hour, it being July and all—and stares up at the rafters. 

He really ought to try and grab a few winks. There'll be a lot of catch-up work tomorrow, cleaning up the mess their firefight left behind.

A metallic scrape echoes through the room—Nate's fidgeting. Must be awkward having to sleep with his arm raised above his head. Well, too bad; as if Brad's dumb enough to turn Nate loose. Kid would probably try and track down his horse that very night, limping and bleeding in the dark as he got into another shootout before the sun came up, the reckless fucker. 

Not that it's especially Brad’s business. Brad determinedly shuts his eyes, trying to fall asleep. He counts sheep... _four sheep._

_Five sheep._

_Six._

Somewhere to his left he hears Nate shift and sigh. The sound is quiet but sweet, like Nate's finally gotten comfortable in Brad's bed. His face is probably getting creases from the pillow, he's probably sweaty under his shirt but still too stubborn or modest—or both—to push the blankets off, because he's still starkers from the waist down, humid sheets twisting around his legs and cock...

_Fucking hell._

It takes a long amount of time for sleep to come, Brad's mind swirling all the way down, but eventually he checks out. One moment he's dutifully not listening to the way Nate's breaths turn steady, heavy, and peaceful, and in the next, Brad's nodded off to the same, dreaming place.

\-----

In Brad's dream, he and Nate are somewhere else. It's still dusty and hot, but there's more sand and less dirt. More heat, less breeze. The sun is a punishing circle in the sky—that bit's the same, at least.

Nate's with him, wearing some strange, patterned outfit that's all sorts of ill-fitted and oversized, but Nate looks confident and, well, _older_ as he looks askance and gives Brad a knowing look that sends chills down his spine. He wishes he knew what this Nate knows.

"You feel safe, Sergeant?" Nate asks. "I feel pretty safe right here."

Brad looks around, bewildered. They're in a ditch, and just above them a current of bullets breaks overhead in a continuous stream. He knows they ain't home, that this is somewhere else entirely, but Brad recognizes a fucking death trap when he sees one.

"Fuck no, I don't feel safe," Brad replies.

Nate just smiles at him mysteriously. "It's all relative, Brad. You'll see."

\-----

In the morning, Nate's gone. All that's left to suggest he'd even been there are the set of handcuffs neatly placed on Brad's nightstand next to the dirty, starchy towels. They remain untouched.

Brad swears under his breath. He can't say he's surprised—hell, expected it, really—but it don't make him any happier about being left behind like a paid whore from Sydney's who's done outlasted her usefulness.

Well, nothing to be done for it. What's he supposed to do, cry and mope around the house like his girlfriend's left him high and dry? Fuck that. It's Tuesday morning and the Washoe police've got eight bodies cold as a wagon tire between here and Reno. Not to mention Brad’s finally figured out who the fifth party was at the scene of the shootout—Cocheta might be prey for the U.S. Marshals Service, but that don’t mean Brad’s just gonna let her waltz away with Washoe blood on her hands.

Lot of shit to do, and the sun's about almost up.

Brad gets dressed and sleepily grabs at the wall hook by the door for his Stetson. Plops it on his head before striking out to get the day started.

\-----

Ain't like he's looking or anything, but Brad doesn't run into Nate while they're in Reno. 

Instead, he and his men identify all the Injuns shot up the night before. As suspected, they’re all Apaches, and they’re all supposed to be at Ojo Caliente down in New Mexico. Not running around shooting up whorehouses and selling opium to dope-wraiths haunting the coarser alleys found about town.

Cocheta, as it turns out, really is one bad-ass motherfucker. No wonder the Union's got Marshals on her tail—woman's liable to take over the country if left to her own devices. Brad and his men knew her flourishing business funded other reactionaries, but he never would’ve guessed the scope of her network. Walt traced the dope all the way from the Pacific to the Atlantic, even north into Canada where, a few months back, the money helped a small band of Injuns bust out of Blackfeet Nation, killing two men in the process.

Brad’s got to hand it to them—these redskins sure got gumption. No brains, though. There’s no way these desperados gonna stay ahead of the law for long, and as Deputy Espera would suggest, _If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em._

Brad’s so absorbed in cracking the case, he hardly notices the time pass. It’s Thursday before they know it, and all that’s left to do is track down the opium with alacrity. Cocheta might be spooked and eager to skip town, but there’s no way even she could unload—or carry with her—the amount of opium all clues point to there being.

Back at the department, the day growing long in the tooth as it slips away for its nightly respite, the team gathers around their usual table. 

Ray passes around dip like it’s a peace pipe, the silver tin exchanging hands until it stops at Deputy Reyes.

“No thanks,” Rudy says, waving his hand against the proffered chaw. “Tobacco makes my piss turn green.” 

Ray shrugs, passes it to Brad who takes a pinch and stuffs it into his lower lip, packing the crushed leaves down with his fingers. Brad’s words are slightly muffled when he says, “Rudy, it ain’t tobacco turning your piss green. You realize how many fool elixirs you take in one day? I’m surprised you don’t piss blood, drinking shit like that.”

Rudy laughs good-naturedly. “Hell, green piss, bloody piss—you can’t deny those elixirs work.” He strikes a pose that flexes his cow-thigh biceps, earning a groan around the table.

“You’re gonna put me off my dinner, dog,” Poke complains, shoving Rudy’s arm out of his face. “Speaking of which, I gotta get home before Gina skins me alive, so let’s keep rolling. Anyone find something new?”

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to trace the stash,” Walt laments. “Ain’t like the Apaches we took out can give us directions.”

“No, but their bodies can,” Brad says, ignoring Ray’s snort. Brad clarifies, “We need to take a closer look at the corpses. Maybe bring Doc in again.”

“No need, Sheriff!” Ray pipes up. He spits into an aluminum cup, getting chaw juice down his chin. It’s revolting, but nobody bats an eyelash. “I got this. Your bestest, favoritest most awesome Deputy has _got this._ “

“Walt’s my favorite,” Brad corrects. Across the table, Walt breaks out in a grin.

“Maybe Hasser can suck your dick but he can’t tell you where the dope is.” Ray pauses, looking around the table at everyone’s expectant faces. He’s probably mistaken impatience for anticipation again.

Eventually, Poke rolls his eyes. “I’m letting my girls braid your horse’s hair again if you don’t spit it out, Person.”

“That was _sacrilege!_ “ Ray says in outrage, then switches gears like an engine changes tracks. “The opium’s along the Truckee.”

Rudy scratches his ear. “Brother, how could you possibly know that?”

Ray gives Rudy a death glare before retorting, “Easy.”

Easy, huh? Brad didn’t notice anything on the dead Apaches that clued him in, but then again, there’s a reason Brad appointed a fucktard like Ray Person as Deputy Sheriff. The rascal comes up with some good ideas when he ain’t busy demolishing Brad’s quietude like it offends him personally.

“I looked at their boots,” Ray finally explains. “Dried mud and grass all over their feet. Y’all know well as I do, ain’t a lot of water splashing around Washoe. Not unless you’re by the river.”

Well, shit. If that ain’t sound sleuthing right there, Brad’s a pink-haired pony.

Ray beams, looking for all the world like a dog that’s just completed a trick and wants a pat on the head, but Brad can do one better than that. “Ray,” he declares. “At Trombley’s roast on Sunday, I’ll let you play _Drill Ye Tarriers_.”

Ray’s jaw hits the floor. “Will you bring your harmonica?” he asks excitedly, and unless Brad’s mistaken, that’s drool that just oozed out from the divot of Ray’s lip.

“Wipe your fucking face first, young Person,” Brad smirks, passing over a handkerchief. “We’ll see about that harmonica.”

\-----

After the meeting ends, Brad follows his team to the stables but he ain’t headed for the Truckee River just yet.

“Where are you going?”

Brad stills in his seat, even as Hummer keeps carrying him, damningly, down Fifth Street.

“I’m checking out the east side of the Truckee,” Brad fibs. God, he’s not even trying.

“No mud over there. Just rocks,” Ray deflects easily, clopping up beside him on his Appaloosa. “You naughty thing, Brad. You’re playing _hooky_.”

“Yes, Ray. I’m skipping the most important case we’ve had in years to hit the red light district,” Brad sighs. “Fine whoring to be found on a Thursday night.”

“Better on Tuesdays when they’re desperate for money,” Ray responds. “So who are you banging?”

Instead of dignifying Ray with an answer, Brad rounds the next corner and steers Hummer onto Commercial Row, the busiest drag in Reno. Lined with shingled awnings and brightly-painted signs, the thoroughfare earns its namesake as stores and hotels cram the street like mismatched books on a library shelf. 

The sky darkens, shopkeepers locking their doors and tipping their hats goodnight to each other. Still, the evening’s hardly begun. The hotels here stay open all night long and the dusty street continues to swarm with people, either walking or astride horses, or hidden behind shade-drawn buggies.

When they’re halfway down Commercial Row, Ray calls out Brad’s name.

Brad turns around. “What is it, Ray?”

“You should’ve said something.” Though the words seem innocuous, Ray’s looking at him with a somber gaze.

The only thing Brad can scrounge up in his mind that would fit his deputy’s accusation…

_Huh._

Ray doesn’t know. He couldn’t—could he? Unbidden images flood Brad’s mind, none of them safe for anyone’s awareness but Brad’s.

_Nate in Brad’s bed, arm cuffed above his head with bare legs splayed open like he’s posing for a Parisian postcard. Nate’s eyes tracking Brad’s movements with undisguised heat._

_Nate’s dick, erect and leaking at the tip._

“Should’ve said what?” Brad asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. 

“You should’ve told me Nate Fick was a whore.”

It takes Brad a heart-stopping second to realize that his deputy’s picking up their previous exchange, followed by a flood of relief. The Copper Tavern’s in sight; Ray must’ve figured out Brad’s destination.

“You’re an idiot,” Brad says automatically as his deputy brays in laughter. Ray’s cottoned on to fuck-all nothing, and Brad’s content to keep it that way.

They pull up to The Copper Tavern. The burnished sign shines bright against the flickering cast of streetlamps.

“So why we here, anyway?” Ray asks, stopping his horse next to Brad’s. They face the entrance together. “Is Nate’s round bottom really for sale? I don’t blame you if you want to tap that, Sheriff. Lord knows, I’ve fucked some things in my youth,” he adds wistfully.

Gut reaction has Brad opening his mouth to tell Ray he can cheese off, but then Brad remembers he’s got nothing to be defensive about. He’s here for a completely professional reason.

Brad’s a man of the law; Nate’s a man of the law. This visit ain’t got nothing to do with the—well, the _things_ that transpired between them the other night. If a county sheriff’s sitting on prime information that can aid a U.S. Marshal, it’s treason to withhold it. 

They’re here for business, plain and simple. Brad explains this to Ray, and when his deputy keeps insisting that Brad’s actually here to bust a nut, he dismounts his horse and leaves Ray to take care of Hummer.

Brad forges his way inside.

\-----

It’s Thursday night and The Copper Tavern’s having a good time of it, visiting guests mixing easily with Reno locals as the parlor burbles with the indistinct cacophony of merry-making. Across the room some eight or ten tables away, dipsos cluster around the harried bartender like iron filings to a magnet.

A cursory assessment shows Nate to be absent from the masses, so Brad makes for the small counter where a clerk busies himself with something Brad can’t see, pen scratching away behind his lectern.

Ray reappears by Brad’s shoulder.

"Don’t even think about it," Brad hisses. Jesus Christ, Ray needs to learn when to let a fucking joke die on the vine. “If I hear one more word about me propositioning _anyone,_ Nate Fick or otherwise, I swear to God I will light your ass on fire.” 

In response, Ray mimes locking up the corner of his mouth with an invisible key, then proceeds to stick it up his rear end.

When the clerk notices their approach, he stops his writing and puts on a tight smile. It’s the same fellow from the last time, Mr. Sinclair, and Lord knows the nervous sop hasn’t forgotten his previous encounter with Brad. No doubt, a street-clearing firefight that riddles half the walls with bullet holes and busts all the windows from the best room in a joint will do wonders for the memory.

The Washoe County Police Department paid for all damages, naturally, but it don’t mean the grey-haired clerk’s chomping at the bit to see him again.

Well, it ain’t Brad’s job to reassure civilians. He just has to keep them alive. 

“Evening, Sinclair,” he says.

“Sheriff,” Sinclair replies, eyes peering above thick spectacles. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Nathaniel Fick again. Is he in tonight?”

Sinclair frowns a bit. "If I’m not mistaken, Misters Nathaniel Fick and Michael Wynn checked out of here a day or two back."

Brad blinks. In his periphery he sees Ray look at him, probably gauging his reaction.

The clerk rushes to flip through his ledger.

“Let’s see, here…” Sinclair runs his finger down an ink-filled page and Brad peers over the lectern, following its progress until the clerk stops, pinpointing a scrawled line. "Yessir, checked out eight 'o clock yesterday morning. Left the room nice and tidy, too, I remember now." He looks up, adjusting his spectacles. "That help you boys any?"

Brad stares, not understanding. Nate couldn’t have left; if there’d been a drug bust, Brad would’ve heard about it. The dope is still out there, and Nate wouldn’t have fucked off before doing a thing about it.

"Yes," Ray pipes up to cover the silence.

They leave the inn empty-handed, letting the din fade behind them like a passing breeze. 

At the small shed behind The Copper Tavern, Brad unties Hummer from his post with quick, militaristic motions as Ray watches him warily, preparing his own steed at a more sedate pace. His mouth opens once or twice, quick inhalations like he wants to say something but Brad stops paying attention.

He’s thinking about his last conversation with Nate. The words they shared get a little sidelined by the activities from that night, but Brad eventually remembers something that just about says it all.

 _We’re closing in on Cocheta,_ Nate said. _I give it a day or two before we’re packing up for home._

Well that’s it, ain’t it? Brad should’ve seen this coming. God, he’s an idiot—he should’ve seen this _coming._

A bump against his arm jolts him from his thoughts and Brad snaps, “Some personal space?”

“Sorry,” Ray responds absently. Ray’s on his Appaloosa now, and they move away a few inches as he settles into his seat but he still doesn’t look away as Brad mounts his own horse. “Brad, are you—”

The anger comes on suddenly, hard like a punch. 

“Ray,” Brad barks, landing on Hummer with a hard thump. “The longer you stare at me like a slack-jawed retard, the more likely it is some shit-stinking vagrant finds the stash of opium our redskins left behind. I only stopped here out of courtesy, but if the Marshals have fucked off to Peoria or where-the-fuck-ever to chase her, there’s jack shit left to do but concentrate on our own mission.”

"I know, that's not..." Ray trails off, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. Underneath him, his horse bucks impatiently and Ray has to yank firmly on the reins to keep in place. "Fuck 'im, Brad. Taking off like that is a dick move,” Ray says as he wraps the reins around his palm to keep them taut. “Just...fuck him, okay?"

"Why?" Brad asks tersely. "I don’t see any foul play." It ain't like Brad doesn't appreciate the concern, but there's nothing to discuss on the matter of Nate getting on with his life. People leave all the time, following their own agendas. And if Brad’s got some sort of problem with that? It’s his own damned fault for expecting otherwise.

 _Fuck,_ Brad realizes—Nate didn’t even take his gun with him. He concentrates on the solidity of Nate’s ’75 Army Outlaw against his lower back, where it’s been kept all these days. He hardly even notices it’s presence anymore. 

Well, it looks like the gun’s his to keep. Ain’t like Nate’s coming back from wherever he is just to pick up a fucking six-shooter.

Brad reaches back and yanks out the offending item from his waistband, shoving it into his sidebag. Doesn’t even want it near him, because when it’s right there, on him like a third piece to his Colt and Navy? It’s almost like Nate could come back for it at any second, and Brad knows better now.

In the corner of his eye, Brad sees Ray shrug in defeat, sending one last unhappy look at the side of Brad’s face. He grimly ignores the attention and digs in his heels, sending Hummer down the street leaving Ray to catch up.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s a dark night. Thick eddies of clouds swim across the moon, making it difficult to navigate the Truckee. Their horses follow the sound of flowing water, and Brad and Ray have no choice but to trust their beasts to lead them in the right direction. Luckily, they do.

Still, this is some job they got; miles and miles to search, and Brad doesn’t even know what they’re searching for. A basement? A house? A hollowed out tree, an overturned carriage—what?

As it happens, he needn’t even ask the question. Fifteen, twenty miles west of Reno, a swarm of police marks a hotspot of activity. Can’t miss it. Feels like the whole city police force is out, officers lit up in eerie, orange light cast from hand-held torches as they scurry around loading burlap sacks into an ox-drawn wagon.

Brad approaches the scene, making out a wooden shanty right on the bank of the Truckee, its flat, aluminum roof reflecting firelight. Must be where Cocheta was keeping her dope.

Looks like the city police beat them to it, which is great. Just fucking great.

“Schwetje,” Brad calls out, pulling Hummer up to stop in front of the foot-mobile Chief. Schwetje turns around from where he’s watching his men come in and out of the shed.

“What are you doing here?” Brad asks heatedly. “I’ve been working this case with my men all week.”

“Case?” Schwetje asks. Brad ain’t got the patience to explain, so gestures for him to keep talking. Schwetje continues, “I don’t know what case you’re referring to, Sheriff, but I’m here because someone tipped me off that this storehouse would be here.”

“Someone?” Brad urges his horse a few steps nearer, close enough to make Schwetje have to look up from where he’s standing in order to maintain eye contact. “Someone who?” Brad asks.

“The United States Marshals Service,” Schetwje replies proudly.

 _Nate,_ Brad thinks darkly.

If this is a final _fuck you_ after ditching Reno like it was teeming with plague, well, Nate’s made his point. Brad can take a fucking hint.

Disgusted, Brad jerks his reins to the side and Hummer does a messy about face, hooves flinging up mud as they set off towards the congregation of Brad’s team.

Everyone backs up on their horses to give Hummer room when Brad approaches. “We’re going home,” Brad says curtly.

“Is Fick here?” Ray asks, stretching his neck to look behind Brad towards the commotion of policemen coming in and out of the storehouse.

"How should I know?" Brad replies. "Listen, gents. We’re done here. Case closed.”

His team looks shocked for a second, but then everyone starts talking all at once. Poke and Rudy press for details while Ray and Walt protest loudly.

Brad quickly explains, “The dope’s been found but our Injuns are long gone. Cocheta ain't none of our business anymore. Unless she's still in our backyard, hosing down men with fucking bows and arrows or tomahawks, it ain't up to the Washoe police to nab her.” 

"Aren’t we being hasty, Sheriff?" Rudy asks. “Even if she did leave the dope behind, she couldn’t have gotten that far.”

“It takes less than three hours to ride out of county borders in every direction, boys. Trust me, she’s gone. As for us, we stay in our fucking jurisdiction."

Ray shoots him a look that clearly reads he ain't buying it. "Is that why we took that field trip to Mexico last year, just for the babes and beaches? And that whole part where Jumping Chav accidentally ran wrists-first into your handcuffs...totally coincidence, right?"

Sometimes, Brad wishes his Deputy would drop dead. But then he'd have to deal with the specter of Joshua Ray Person, and the thought of that hopped up voice whispering into his ear for the rest of eternity makes Brad want to cry. Even warriors cry sometimes.

"Ray," Brad says. "Shut—"

"Up. Got it," Ray says.

"Ray's got a point," Walt says timidly. "I mean, not to encourage him, but we _do_ stretch the rules sometimes, Sheriff. Cocheta sounds pretty nasty...if the U.S. Marshals can't pin her down, maybe somebody ought to."

Poke lifts both palms in the air. “Fuck that, dog. I'm with Brad on this one. If it ain't our business, I ain't inclined to stick my neck out for the white man, just so he can further oppress my people."

Brad stares at his officer. "Poke, you're Mexican. Just because Mexicans and Injuns are both brown, don't mean y'all are the same people."

Poke lifts both eyebrows at him in a way Brad's sure he picked up from his wife. 

Brad shrugs. “Anyway, I don’t know about you folks, but I’m going home. It’s almost midnight—”

“Sheriff!”

A voice cuts through the dusty air and Brad’s team turns to the sound. A flame bobs towards them, lighting up a familiar face as its bearer approaches.

It’s one of Schwetje’s henchmen, some yes-man named Griego or Gringo. Brad forgets.

“Sheriff,” the officer repeats, huffing as jogs up on foot. “I need you to sign this before you go.”

Brad looks down, where Griego’s holding a typewritten sheet that he passes over.

Brad scans the document, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. When he gets to the bottom, Brad reads aloud:

“ ‘The signatory below accepts full transfer of goods and/or monetary funds from the Reno City Police Department in amounts stated on separate sheet.’ “ Brad lowers the paper. “I’m not following.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, however, Brad pieces it together.

He recalls the state laws—all the rules buried in some molding book that nobody reads more than once but still complies with—and remembers that confiscated goods get passed up from smaller bureaus to larger bureaus. In this case, the city police discovered Cocheta’s storehouse, so all its contents go directly to the county department.

If Brad and his team had been the ones to raid it, they would’ve had to turn everything over to the state police, keeping zilch in the process.

“Merry Christmas,” Griego says grumpily from the ground. “We’ll write up the full inventory when we’re done taking stock.”

Brad says blankly, “There’s something like two hundred pounds of dope in there.”

“Yeah, and at least $25,000 in cash, too,” Griego mumbles. “Trust me, Sheriff, I didn’t make the rules.”

Behind him, he hears Ray breathe, _Holy shit._

Holy shit indeed. 

Brad runs a hand over his face. “Pen?”

\-----

People often mistake Brad for being a born-and-bred Nevadan. Must be the confidence in his gait, or the practicality of his wardrobe, his lifestyle. No white shell buttons or flashy belt buckles for this cowboy, nosirree.

Most can’t even imagine Brad outside the context of a beige-colored backdrop, cracked earth beneath his cowhide boots. And sure, it suits him, but the truth is Brad misses the ocean so bad he can still taste the salted air on his tongue. 

He was born under the sun, yes—but sun glinted off silver waves, lapping onshore from the horizon. Sun filtered through palm trees or, when you get inland, through evergreens. It’s the same damned sun in the sky, don’t get Brad wrong, but she’s fairer in the west. Sweeter, more gentle; a friend you meet each daybreak with a kiss on the cheek.

Brad hasn’t been back to California in eight and a half years. For all he knows, his former state could be overrun by labor-thumping socialists now, its grounds pillaged of all mineral wealth and so damned pot-holed you could see straight out to China. 

But to Brad, California remains endless sea of vagaries, of halcyon youth and hidden darkness so intertwined, you don’t know which you’re faced with until one day you find yourself flat on your back, dizzy and lost. It could be the seductive weather that put you there—you fall asleep on the beach, you wake up burned. It could be the friends you make. You fall complacent, you wake up betrayed.

(Specifically, you wake up and your fiancée’s not in bed. She’s at the doorway greeting your best friend. They’re holding hands.)

Brad misses the ocean, but he’s learned to appreciate Nevada’s aridity, its desert land. In Washoe, you can see things coming a mile away.

That is, he could until a week ago. Nathaniel Fick, and the way he wormed inside Brad’s head? That came from buttfuck nowhere.

Nate’s like California—intoxicating, full of promise. But unlike Brad’s personal history, he doesn’t know how this story goes. Doesn’t even know what Nate wants from him. With the dope bust trailing behind him and twenty-five grand lining his pockets, courtesy of the aforementioned, what’s Brad supposed to think?

His ex-fiancée might’ve been duplicitous, but at least she was never obscure.

Brad can’t decide which is worse.

\-----

The next day, three o’clock Friday, Deputy James Trombley stops by the county department. 

Brad sees him coming through the window of his office. Trombley’s got a wailing baby slung over his shoulder, the hold he’s got on its back and bum looking mighty precarious.

“Fuck, Trombley,” Poke says, striding up to the door to gather the baby into the practiced cradle of his arms. “It’s not a fucking virgin on your honeymoon, you’ll kill it like that.”

The rest of the Washoe police stampede towards the entrance, meeting Trombley with backslaps and open tins of dip. Brad comes out of his office for practically the first time all day, but he hangs at the back of the room and watches the scene, smiling to himself. 

Trombley’s been dealing with the newborn all month, which can’t be easy. As for the rest of the team, Lord knows the kind of week they’ve had. It’s good to see them all together in high spirits, horsing around like nothing’s changed.

Trombley notices him and they make eye contact. The team parts, giving Brad a direct line to his erstwhile deputy and he takes it, sauntering over.

“Hey Sheriff,” Trombley says, pulling his hat off. “How’s it going?’

Brad looks down at the baby in Poke’s arms. It’s stopped crying, but its face is tomato-red and there’s an alarming amount of snot coming out of its tiny, pinhole nostrils. The baby gurgles and stretches out its pudgy arms.

Everyone watches him expectantly, but Brad’s not really sure what he’s supposed to be doing. He finally asks, “You land on a name?”

“Well, Irene didn’t like Jesús—”

“Jesus!” Ray claps his hands together in delight.

“She said it’s pronounced _hay-SOOS_ , idiot.”

“Little tyke will always be Jesus to me,” Ray says, poking the baby in one fat cheek.

“So ‘James’, then,” Brad guesses. Trombley was deciding between the two, last he left off.

“Yeah,” Trombley says. “We named him James Edgar Trombley.” He smiles self-consciously and adds, “Edgar after Irene’s dad.”

Brad looks back to the kid, who suddenly squeals with delight and squirms in Poke’s arms.

Trombley continues to watch Brad’s face though, like he’s waiting for approval or something. Well hell, it ain’t like Brad’s got any fucking sage advice, but he meets his young deputy’s gaze and says firmly, “You’re a dad now, Trombley. Don’t fuck it up.”

At his shoulder, Poke grins at Brad like he’d said something else entirely—something decidedly moronic, from the way his entire team smiles at Brad like he’d declared his everlasting love for all things newborn and helpless. Audaciously, Poke tries to pass the baby over. 

“Get that thing away from me,” Brad says, backing away as Poke shoves little Trombley in Brad’s face and starts to remove his hands.

Brad automatically grabs the baby around its ribs, holding the giggling thing away from his body.

Jesus Christ, that’s one tiny ribcage. He could crush it if he wanted.

“That’s sweet,” Walt says from somewhere behind him.

Brad rolls his eyes, just as the baby blows a snot bubble. Rudy and Walt coo like pussies while Ray makes a face at it, bubbling spit out his mouth that earns a revolted expression from Poke but makes the baby cackle with glee.

While it’s distracted, Brad hands the baby off to Walt, who looks more than happy to take it.

“Fellas,” he says, and even the baby turns to listen. “If y’all keep this up in front of me, my dick’s gonna drop off.”

“Is that a promise?” Ray asks. “Because you get all the bitches in Reno, it ain’t fair—”

“It’s Friday afternoon, and I could use some peace and quiet to finish up. Why don’t I look the other way for a few minutes, and if y’all happen to disappear, that’s my own damned fault for blinking.”

The men exchange looks. Rudy’s the first to pipe up, “You sure, brother? I ain’t done going through the inventory from last night—”

Brad crosses his arms. “It’ll keep.”

Walt starts, “I was gonna start pulling contacts that could—”

“Already done,” Brad answers. He brooks a gaze at his team, raising his eyebrows to challenge anymore protests they could possibly have.

Finally, Trombley pipes up, “We’ll see you Sunday, right Sheriff? I’m roasting the pig around five.” He takes his son back from Walt, holding the baby correctly this time. “You should come by, sir.”

“Yeah, and take a break from jerking off thinking about—”

Walt claps Ray over the mouth and in unison, the team stares at Brad uneasily like he’s gonna break down and start crying. Fucking hell, a guy has one bad week and everyone starts walking on fucking eggshells around him.

“Sure, whatever,” Brad says. “Sunday at five. Now, do you want an early weekend or not, gents?”

The answer appears to be a collective yes. Everyone rushes to their desks, gathering up belongings and pulling on jackets, checking their side-shooters. Brad thumps Trombley on the shoulder before turning around to go back to his office. 

He leaves the door ajar this time, listening to the sounds of his team vacating the department. The silence that greets him after is a breath of fresh air.

\-----

Brad stays until the sun goes down. The Washoe County Police Department has had a helluva week, and the sheer paperwork coming out of it could keep him busy for months.

Brad intends to tackle it with brute force. Especially since there ain’t much waiting for him at home, other than too much time, too much space. Makes his mind wander down unpleasant pastures, so he’d rather keep it at bay with productivity.

At his desk, by the dwindling light of a candlestump, Brad composes a letter to Ojo Caliente informing the reservation that their missing Apaches have been accounted for. Not that anyone there would shed a tear; the reservation just needs to cross the names off their list. 

It’s almost unfair, Brad thinks, as he pens each name of the Injuns they killed during the horseback firefight. The Washoe police gets away with this—is applauded for it, even—while the Injuns get locked up and murdered for no reason other than simple existence.

It makes the pit of Brad’s stomach churn. He wonders if Nate ever felt this way.

Well, nobody ever went into law enforcement because they wanted to be kind.

Without warning, the candle goes out and the room falls dark. The smell of smoke fills up Brad’s nose. There’s still wan light filtering through the windows, though, so Brad lets his eyes adjust as he sifts through his desk drawer, pulling out a fresh candle. Strikes a match, the room flaring into light—

A muffled knock resounds, echoing through the empty office.

Brad looks up. The sound was quiet, maybe coming from outdoors rather than the front of the department. He waits, listening. Nothing follows though, so it’s probably nothing—

His fingers snatch back from a burn, Brad hissing as the match hits the table and goes out. He sticks his thumb in his mouth where the skin’s tender and shoves back his chair, knees cricking as he stands up and walks out of the room. 

As Brad crosses the office, still nursing his burned finger, another knock echoes through the door.

Brad yanks it open.

On the wooden deck, the visitor turns around. It’s just a young teenager with red curls sneaking out from under his cap, wearing a courier’s uniform. The front of his shirt reads _Western Union Telegraph Company,_ embroidered in brown thread over his breast pocket.

Brad wipes his thumb on the side of his jeans. "C'n I help you?"

"Does Mister Colbert work here?" the courier asks. There are freckles all over his face, probably from being out in the sun so much.

"At your service."

"Telegram for you."

Brad eyes him warily, noting the kid’s horse-toothed grin with suspicion. Nobody should look that happy delivering messages all day. Brad takes the telegram anyway and the courier leaves with a jaunty wave.

Brad looks down at the cream-colored envelope in his hand. He lets the door fall shut behind him and walks back to his office, slicing the envelope open messily and pulling out cardstock printed on Western Union letterhead.

He gets back inside his office and puts down the telegram long enough to light the new candle, then plunks down in his chair to read:

_DATED: July 2, 1888  
TO: Washoe County Police Department, High Sheriff Brad Colbert_

_On behalf of the United States Marshals Service of the U.S. Department of Justice, I would like to extend an offer of temporary employment as Special Deputy United States Marshal under sponsorship of U.S. Marshal Nathaniel Fick._

_Classified debrief to follow in person—_

The swooping script runs into the bottom of the card and Brad flips it over, where the message continues.

_— at Southern Pacific Railway - Reno Station at 1900h Sunday, July 5th 1888. Your contact Deputy Marshal John Christeson will meet you at the above location, train route as of yet undisclosed. Bring supplies to last for two weeks' travel._

The sender address comes directly from the Office of the U.S. Marshals Service, and it's stamped at the bottom with the words “Department of Justice”, on top of which someone has scribbled, _Lt. Col. Stephen Ferrando._

Brad reads the message again, then once more. Finally, he holds it over his trash can and lets go. The card drops in silently.

Whatever game Nate’s playing at, Brad ain’t dumb enough to hope there’s anything salvageable between them. Not after Nate’s wordless departure. Not after Nate dropped twenty-five grand into Brad’s lap like he’s some charity case. Nate’s a fucking prima-donna for thinking he can curry favor with cash—this ain’t the East fucking Coast. Dignity matters here.

Brad crumples up the envelope and tosses that in the trash as well. He quickly finishes out the letter he was writing to Ojo Caliente and leaves it on his desk to send out Monday morning.

That’s it, he’s done for the week. Brad’s done for—fuck it, he’s just _done._

Brad grabs his bag and blows the candle out, hastening to get out of the suddenly claustrophobic office.

\-----

Brad gives a light kick to Hummer's flank, starting them towards home, but a few blocks down he changes his mind. With a sharp tug of the reins in the other direction, Brad turns south. Doc's back in town a day early, and Brad figures he might as well take advantage by dropping into Mathilda for a small nightcap. 

As the only building still lit from the quiet street off Ralston, Mathilda is familiar and inviting, candles dancing in the small windows like the wooden building is alive, breathing. 

Brad goes in. There, his small nightcap turns into kind of a big nightcap as the evening slips by, greased on easy conversation with Doc Bryan. They talk about Doc's patient in Silver Springs, a young boy whose broken leg was probably doled out by his father, but whose unsavory situation seems unlikely to change anytime soon. They talk about the Washoe lawmen, how Trombley must be going stir-crazy taking care of his new baby. 

They talk about the last horse race and laugh over Ray's bad bet. They talk about the weather, the useless sitting president—Arthur was ineffectual, but at least he wasn't a fucking Marxist like Cleveland. They talk about dogs.

What they _don't_ talk about are the bags underneath Doc's eyes, dark from more than just lack of sleep. They don't talk about the fifth whisky shot Brad downs like water after Doc asks how the case with the Injuns turned out. 

There are things men share between men on the frontier, like the gnawing ugliness of a choleric death, or the silent beauty of a blood-red sunset. But the ghosts that they, each and every one of them, keep? Ain't one of those shared things.

Brad doesn't get home that night. He crashes at Doc’s place, the both of them stumbling in at dawn as Doc sticks him on the spare bed normally reserved for patients, as if self-inflicted drunkenness is the same as scurvy or influenza. 

A bed’s a bed, though. Brad passes out to the sounds of the street groaning awake, horses led outside and the street-side water pump creaking away.


	9. Chapter 9

Saturday is a total wash. Riding horseback into the blinding glare of the rising sun with a splitting hangover is not something Brad recommends, but he’s gotta get home somehow. The rest of the day’s spent asleep, pretty much.

Brad wakes up on Sunday in his own, proper bed, ready to take a second stab at the weekend. Then he remembers the roast that evening. He can’t decide if he wants to go or not.

While he’s thinking, Brad gives Hummer a good rubdown and grooming at his stable behind the ranch. It takes all day, brushing his horse’s chocolate coat until it shines, cleaning his teeth even as Humvee snaps at Brad’s fingers like they're carrots, and by the time six o’clock rolls around it doesn’t seem worth it to show up anymore. So Brad skips the roast and hopes Trombley doesn’t shoot any wild dogs this time. 

He’s in the middle of gouging pebbles out of Hummer’s shoes when, faintly, he hears the sound of an approaching rider. He ain't expecting no one, but he’ll take one wild guess.

“Iceman!”

Brad sighs, dropping Humvee's foot with a little click to the hay-strewn floor.

Ray’s voice has a unique quality to it, something Ray describes himself as ‘commanding’. Brad just calls it shrill. It’s also the last damned voice he wants to hear because Ray could only have one possible reason for coming all the way out to Brad’s ranch, and that’s to check on him.

Brad comes out of the stable, rubbing sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. He rounds the side of his ranch to the music of Ray’s horse stamping around out front, where—goddamnit, those scattered, wooden echoes better not be the sound of rocks getting kicked up all over his front porch again.

“The fuck, Ray?” Brad asks as Ray whirls around. Brad wipes his hands on a towel tucked in his waistband and continues, “Shouldn’t you be cannibalizing some roasted pig right about now?”

He expects Ray’s response to be openly worried, like _Why aren’t you at Trombley’s?_ or, worse— _Are you okay?_ , but what Brad actually gets is something else entirely.

Ray storms forward, clutching a small piece of cardstock that starts to look awful familiar the closer his deputy gets.

“What the hell, Brad?” Ray holds up the card. As suspected, it’s the telegram Brad got last week. He feels his mood worsen.

“Were you seriously going to _throw this away?_ “ Ray demands.

“Why you were going through my trash?” Brad counters.

“I swung by the office to find you. We needed a harmonica, and you said you’d—you know, fuck it. Doesn’t even matter.” In a fit of frustration, Ray throws the telegram onto the ground, which lands in front of Brad’s boot. “Listen. You have to go.”

Brad lifts an eyebrow. “I already saw the baby. What, do I need to perform rites or something, too? You realize that requires a pair of scissors, in my religion.”

In the face of the blank stare he receives, Brad pointedly looks down at his deputy’s crotch, then makes a snipping motion with his fingers.

“ _What?_ “ Ray yelps, recoiling. “Jesus—you’re joking.”

“Hand to questionable God. Look it up.”

“What the fuck do you sick Hebrews cut down there?” Ray squints in thought, then shakes his head. “You know what, never mind. I’m not even talking about Trombley’s roast. I meant, you have to go to the _train station._ “

Bristling, Brad takes a crunching step forward. He makes sure to put his foot on the crumpled telegram lying on the gravel. “I’m not chasing after some U.S. Marshal who pretends like he’s a big city fish in a backwater pond. He used us, Ray—got from us what he wanted, and when that was done? He fucked out of here like the town was on fire.”

“Dude,” Ray nearly shouts. “He apologized with _two-hundred pounds of opium._ And now he’s asking you out on an Injun-killing spree. If that’s not _I’m sorry baby, come fuck me now_ , I don’t know what is!”

Brad stares. “If your idea of foreplay includes getting high and killing things, I’m worried about your favorite goat.”

“Bucky’s fine, he loves it,” Ray says flippantly. “Besides, you don’t have to actually sodomize Nate Fick. He’d probably cry all the way through. I’m just saying.” Ray rubs the back of his head, like he’s thinking for words until he eventually concludes, “You can’t leave it like this. See what he wants, at least.”

Brad clenches his fists. He doesn’t know what Nate wants, but what _Brad_ wants is to hit something. “I ain’t gonna bend over for a reaming every time some Eastern dicksuck throws a dime my way. Nate can take his presumptuous ass and hire somebody else.”

The look Ray gives is a little too shrewd. “Then tell him no,” Ray insists. “Tell him to fuck off in person. You can’t let him have the last word.”

Brad stills. 

Shit, that part’s true—he hates the fact that everything ended on Nate’s terms, while Brad was left chasing fumes just to piece together what the hell happened after Nate left.

Brad takes a step back, removing his foot from the abused telegram. Ray crouches down to pick it up, dusting it off.

“Seven o’clock,” Ray reads, before looking up to meet Brad’s gaze. “That gives you less than an hour. You can still make it, though.”

Brad closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. “Fuck,” he swears, turning around and putting his hands behind his head. _“Fuck_.”

He’s not prepared to see Nate again. Took him long enough to come to terms with the fact Nate’s gone.

“Come on, Brad. You can threaten to rip my face off later if this doesn’t pan out, but just _go_.”

Brad opens his eyes, seeing the familiar stretch of desert grasses and sky. He’s facing west—facing Reno. Nate’s there, waiting for him.

Fuck it.

Brad lets his arms drop to his sides and turns around. Ray’s bouncing from foot to foot, watching him expectantly.

“Saying ‘fuck you’ just ain’t the same in a letter,” Brad says.

Ray punches the air, then freezes. “Before you go, can I borrow your harmonica? Not even the sound of your balls slapping against Fick’s ass from the West Indies or where-the-fuck-ever he is can drown out the awesome solo I’ve been working on.”

\-----

Brad doesn’t pack anything—just throws a light coat on, grabs a few things off his table, and splits. Even has to leave Ray behind, who’s occupied with watering his Appaloosa before he’ll head back to the roast.

The twenty-minute ride to Reno shrinks to fifteen at Brad’s urging, Hummer galloping hard enough to sweat. Even still Brad finds himself counting time, checking his fob the moment they pull up to the Southern Pacific station. Now that he’s made the decision to see Nate once more, he damned well better not miss him again.

Brad stables his horse and by the time he enters the station, it’s seven o’clock on the dot. In the Spanish-styled building, travelers mill in and out of the clay-brick arcade like faceless currents. One man stands apart from the crowd, though; he has dark, close-cropped hair and waits by the east entrance. His posture is straight and erect like a soldier’s—like Nate’s.

Brad strolls up, stands directly in front of the man.

"Christeson?" he asks. 

The man jumps a little, but recovers quickly to reply, "That’s right. I take it you’re Sheriff Colbert?"

"Where's Nate?" Brad replies. He’s got no patience for a dog and pony show. He’s here for just one reason, and making small talk with a Deputy Marshal sure ain’t it.

Christeson frowns, saying cautiously, "On the platform." He looks unconvinced that Brad is who he says he is. 

Sighing, Brad digs out his nickel badge from the breast pocket of his sand-colored shirt and flashes it. Lo and behold the magic of a twenty-five cent piece of issued metal, for it earns him the instant respect it always does. Christeson smiles sheepishly, an unvoiced apology for doubting him.

They walk through the open arches of the station, passing underneath exposed rafters that span the long, narrow building, reminiscent of a church. On the other side, hand-painted signs point to different platforms, and Brad trails Christeson wordlessly as they trek up a ramped pathway labeled ‘Oakland’.

The air is hot outside, as usual, but the sun’s getting lower and a cool breeze tempers the heat. Underneath a continuous awning, supported by square columns of unvarnished pine, they walk alongside railroad tracks until the wooden deck becomes increasingly trafficked with the boots, oxfords, and heels of milling passengers.

The train hasn’t arrived yet, but men and women occupy every bench or spare bit of leaning space, laden down with children or valises, or both. It makes it increasingly difficult to navigate the narrow platform, but Brad’s height comes in handy now, and he searches the sea of people with a hawk’s intent.

At the far end of the track, Nate's familiar silhouette can be made out, black hat tipped low to shade against the sinking sun, his ass perched against a row planters next to an equally reposed Gunny Wynn. 

Brad feels his chest seize up, but he sets his face in a cool expression and briskly strides over.

He stops right in front of Nate’s feet, letting his stretched shadow announce his presence. It takes a moment, but Nate lifts his head, the brim of his hat slanting up until it clears a path for their eyes to meet.

Nate doesn't say anything, just blinks at Brad owlishly. His green eyes dilate now that Brad’s blocked out the sun, his chapped lips are parted, and he keeps staring like he can’t believe Brad actually showed up. Granted, it’s a fair assessment—Brad ain’t even sure if this is a good idea, yet.

Christeson interrupts them with loud footfalls as he catches up to Brad. "Sheriff,” he says. “This is United States Marshal Nathaniel Fick. " 

Brad smiles wryly and Nate squares his shoulders, wiping his face clean of expression like an ocean wave smoothing out sand.

Christeson turns to Brad. "Mr. Colbert, you'll be reporting directly to the Marshal as Special Deputy of the Service, if you so choose to accept upon hearing the terms of your agreement. Now, Marshal Wynn—" Gunny nods his head in greeting, "—is his partner and will be acting as correspondent between the Service and yourself, rather than as a direct, superior officer."

Brad nods slowly, never letting his eyes stray from Nate's face. Most people find it unsettling when he does this—apparently it’s part of the reason folks started calling him ‘Iceman’—but Nate’s at ease, watching back impassively with his hands in his pockets as Christeson finishes up introductions. 

“Mr. Colbert?” 

Brad blinks and turns to Christeson with a blank look, then noticed the clipboard being offered. Attached to it is a sheet of paper labeled “DOJ Non-Disclosure Agreement”.

“It’s just a formality before Marshal Wynn debriefs the mission,” Christeson explains, holding out a fountain pen.

“I’m not here for that,” Brad says dismissively. He lifts the back of his light coat and reaches behind to grasp for the solid, warm piece of metal he knows he'll find there.

Under the careful watch of all parties present, he draws out the Outlaw. Spins it easily over his index finger to proffer it to Nate, handle-first.

"You forgot this when you left my place the other morning, Nate."

To Brad's extreme delight, Nate's eyes grow huge and round. Next to him, Gunny peers at his partner with a question in his eyes, while Christeson just looks surprised they even know each other.

Nate takes his gun, careful not to let their fingers brush. Doesn't matter—Brad knows he feels the electricity anyway, like a phantom touch.

Nate clears his throat. "It's going to be 'sir' from here out, Sheriff, if you decide to take this case."

This is the moment Brad’s been waiting for. “I already said, I’m not here for that. Just wanted to return your gun.” Brad takes a step back and settles into a wide stance, resting his hands on his belt buckle. “Good luck on your mission, gents.”

Nate’s mouth thins out and he bites his lower lip, obviously distressed. “Sheriff—” he starts, but Brad cuts him off with a final tip of his hat and turns to leave.

It should feel better than it does—victory, that is. It shouldn’t feel like dust in his mouth.

Brad makes it halfway back to the station before Nate comes after him, calling out his name. The flicker of hope that insinuates itself in Brad’s chest is an annoying thing he can’t help.

“Sheriff,” Nate repeats, his footsteps uneven against the wooden deck like he’s weaving through the crowd. Brad doesn’t slow down, just keeps marching. “Sheriff, turn around.”

It’s stupid, he knows. Brad’s got not reason to be walking away like Nate ain’t gonna catch up in about two seconds, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He can’t—

“God damn it, Brad.” Nate puts his hand on Brad’s shoulder, pulling him to a halt. _“Brad.”_

He stops. Ain’t got a choice, really. Nate’s hand is heavy on his shoulder.

“Would you turn around and face me like a fucking man?” Nate asks. His voice sounds agitated, angry even—but then the hand on Brad’s shoulder drops down to catch the back of his bicep and Nate adds, quietly like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear, “Please, Brad. Look at me.”

It sounds like a request, but the steel in Nate’s voice makes it an order. Brad turns around.

“What is it?” He doesn’t jerk his arm back, even though Nate’s fingers feel like iron brands through his coat and shirtsleeve. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want. You’re here, aren’t you?” Nate says heatedly. “And don’t feed me that bullshit about you coming back just to return my gun.”

The sheer gall of Nate’s indignity throws Brad for a loop, but he comes swinging back. “You’re right. I do know what you want,” he growls. “You want me because I’m the best goddamned weapon in the West for a manhunt, and since you and your partner don’t have what it takes to capture one trite Injun—an Injun with tits, mind you—you’re trying to bribe me into doing your job for you.”

They’re drawing attention out here and Brad doesn’t want to share this conversation with the entire fucking town. He walks backwards, Nate following him until they fall under the shadow of a porch column, then pulls him aside so they’re partially hidden from the waiting crowd.

Nate’s back hits the wooden post in the face of Brad’s glowering, but he doesn’t look concerned. “Brad,” Nate says, his mouth slow and deliberate as he enunciates each word. “Is this about me leaving that morning?”

“Are you kidding?” Brad’s insulted. What does Nate take him for, a simpering damsel who needs a fainting couch each time she gets a sound fucking? Fuck that.

“Then this is about me leaving town,” Nate concludes.

Brad pauses. “No,” he lies.

Nate’s eyes slide sideways and Brad follows the trajectory, finding a woman in a fine hat watching them suspiciously. Brad stares until she looks away, her bustle wagging as she pitters down the platform to join the other folks waiting for the train.

When Brad faces front again, Nate’s still looking away. That won’t do. 

Brad hooks a finger through one of Nate’s belt loops, letting the butt of his curled palm rest against Nate’s hip. “Hey,” he says.

Nate snaps back and the weight of his green gaze feels good. Nate licks his lips before saying, “If this is about me leaving, I wasn’t. I always meant to come back. I’m sorry if it seemed abrupt, but Gunny and I had to chase the lead we got from Marla and we didn’t know how long we’d be gone. It just seemed prudent to take our belongings with us.”

“You could’ve warned me. Left a note at the hotel. _Something._ ” Brad’s aware he’s showing his hand, but at this point, he’s sick of pretending. Sick of the game and the bluffing they’ve engaged since the day Nate stepped into Mathilda. If it means Brad’s going to have to pick himself up again after Nate leaves, so be it. “After the things we did—”

“Brad,” Nate says urgently. His eyes dart towards the platform again, but Brad just tugs on the belt loop, anchoring Nate to the topic at hand.

“After the things we did, I don’t blame you for leaving. But grow a pair and admit it,” Brad says lowly. “The only reason you even bothered to look me up again was because you needed me. Not because you wanted me to come.”

Nate flushes. It might be from standing so close in public, feet slotted like clock gears, or it could be from the loaded conversation they’re having. Either way, Brad’s implacably drawn, doesn’t even realize he’s leaned in until their knees bump together—

“Sheriff,” Nate protests and Brad instantly obeys, pulling back to a safer distance. Even when he’s ill at ease, Nate has an innate authority about him and Brad’s helpless but to fall in step. 

Nate continues, “You want me to admit that I need you? You’re wrong. I don’t need you.”

Brad frowns as Nate continues, “We know exactly where Cocheta is, and while it’s true we didn’t catch her in Reno—something I’ll willingly take the blame for since it was my hesitation that let her get away—I think we did the town a service by chasing her out before she could move the dope.”

“If you don’t need me, then why—”

“Brad, you’re not listening to me. I don’t _need_ you.”

Brad’s had enough. “Fuck, Nate,” he says, pulling his hand out of Nate’s belt loop and stepping back. “I get the fucking picture…”

Brad trails off and stares mutely. Nate’s expression is penetrating as Brad furrows his brow, piecing together Nate’s meaning.

Nate doesn’t need him for the case…but he wants Brad regardless.

A curl of heat licks at the pit of Brad’s belly. The longer Nate watches him, eyes softening as they finally come to an understanding, the heat rises through Brad’s chest and fills him up like smoke.

“Will you come?” Nate asks simply.

Brad answers him with a slow smile, and he knows the message’s received when Nate responds with a quick, but blinding grin of his own.

Nate's eyes suddenly flick over Brad's shoulder, and the _chug-chug_ of pistoning wheels announces the train’s arrival just before it moves past them, pulling into the far platform. But Nate’s still looking in the distance and when he makes a despairing noise, shaking his head, Brad turns around. 

If his eyes aren’t mistaken—and they seldom are—that’s his deputy sheriff cutting over, Hasser at his side. Jesus Christ.

"Brad, you can’t bring them,” Nate says. There’s a chuckle hiding in Nate’s voice as he adds, “They’ll piss on the carpet."

“No doubt," Brad agrees, turning back around. He should’ve known his deputy was gonna try to tag along. Ray’s like that, loyal to a fucking fault, but that doesn’t mean it ain’t his best trait too. 

Brad makes a split-second decision. He adds, "Chew your nice shoes up too. But you see, these boys are mine, and I don’t work without them."

Nate hesitates as Ray and Walt get closer, their footsteps audible now. Before Brad loses his chance at making a persuasive case, he steps in and leans a forearm against the wooden post above Nate’s head to lightly request, mouth against Nate’s ear, "They won’t cost the Service one Indian cent. But it’s up to you." He pauses, before adding, "Sir.”

Nate closes his eyes, taking in a long, deep breath. Brad pulls back and watches as Nate comes to a conclusion, eyes opening.

"I hope they brought their things. Train's leaving soon," Nate says firmly, before turning to head back to where the engine’s pulled in, Gunny and Christeson no doubt waiting for him. 

Brad doesn’t even bother to hide the huge grin on his face. At his back, he hears Ray say, "Shit is _on._ "

Brad turns, only to get a lumpy object thrown at his chest. He catches it instinctively, then looks down. It’s his travel bag, and one glance under the flap reveals some clothes and underwear and what looks like the rest of Brad’s condoms, wrapped around his jar of Vaseline. “You broke into my house,” Brad says dumbly. “You went through my underwear drawer.”

“Fuck yeah, I did.”

“Remind me never to leave you unattended at my ranch again.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Ray dismisses. That time, Brad came home to his furniture all over the fucking place. He found his boots on the windowsill, chairs stacked in a corner, and his bed was in the stable, for fuck’s sake. Ray had said something about a Chinaman giving him interior decorating tips, something about ‘good sex vibes.’ It took him all afternoon to get his place back to normal, and he'd been forced to get rid of his sheets because the smell of horse shit would _not_ come out.

“Remind me to kill you, Ray.”

Ray laughs. “Whatever, dude. Best kept secret: the Iceman’s an enormous, flaccid softie. You’d never kill your boy Ray. Especially not with this face of innocence watching on.” Ray reaches over and pats Walt affectionately on the cheek. Walt just chuckles, completely nonplussed. Brad might have to give him up for lost. 

“You’re a sick man, Person.”

“Awesome, right?”

Brad laughs, and it’s as much an admission as any that he’ll let them come. First things first, though. “It’s short notice, but we can’t just ditch the department. I know Poke can hold down the fort, but he’s gonna need some help.”

Walt brightens at this. “We took care of that, back at Trombley’s. Poke’s gonna take over while we’re gone, and he says Swarr owes him a favor so he’ll lend us some men.”

“You remember him, right Brad?” Ray asks.

Fuck, how could he not? There was a real shitstorm back in Delta City a few years back, a town just outside of Washoe boundaries. Unfortunately, the Pershing County police were nowhere to be found, jacking off to the sight of money streaming in from the boomtown of Unionville, probably. Brad had sent Poke and a few others out to lend a hand, and it earned them some good contacts with the Delta City police. Sergeant Robert Swarr, in particular, was a good guy with an honest head on his shoulders.

“So we have the help. Good,” Brad nods. “You boys get on the train first, I’m gonna get the clerk inside to take care of Hummer and your horses.”

“No need,” Ray says cheerily. “We put ‘em up at the livery Doc uses, over on Fourth and Commercial. Doc’s brought them over already, I think.”

Brad leans back, impressed. It’s clear his deputies had this figured out before he did. 

By this point, there ain’t nothing for Brad to do but sling his bag over his shoulder and say, “I ain’t paying your fares. If you have to come, it’s on your own dime.”

If Ray and Walt were little tween girls, they’d jump up and down and giggle like retards. Unfortunately, they’re two grown men, jumping up and down, giggling like retards. Brad rolls his eyes and turns around, just as the iron horse at the end of the platform gives an ear-piercing whistle that warns its imminent departure.

Shit. The train’s still about a hundred yards down the platform. They better get the fuck onboard before it leaves their asses in Reno.

The Washoe lawmen—scratch that, two civilians and one Special Deputy U.S. Marshal—break into a run as steam starts billowing out the huge engine in the front. They catch up quick, though, throwing themselves inside just as the train wheels groan into slow rotation, inching forward.

Ray and Walt find an open bench in the first car they enter, but Brad ain’t interested in babysitting them for the whole fucking train ride so he keeps going, working his way from car to car. After five or six of the same jostling, uneven march down carpeted aisles, he finally reaches the opulent First Class car. It takes just one threatening look to negotiate a feckless guard before gaining entry. 

Inside are eight private compartments, four on each side. Brad lets himself into the one labeled ‘Wynn’. 

Christeson, Gunny, and Nate are inside the small space, which has room enough for just two facing benches sandwiching a broad, rectangular table. Christeson and Gunny give Brad friendly smiles, but Nate offers only a polite nod.

Looks like Nate’s trying to be professional. Trying, but failing—Nate has no idea how transparent he is. His posture’s stiff as a board, and when Brad reaches up to stow his bag into the overhead, he bumps his hip against Nate’s shoulder, causing Nate’s palms to curl into fists on the tabletop.

Brad smiles to himself. He’s going to enjoy breaking down that barrier, if only because Nate colors up real pretty when he’s embarrassed. Not to say he’s taking this job just to chase some tail—Brad’s reputation was built through hard work and sweat, and there ain’t nothing gonna tamper with that formula—but Nate said it himself:

He wants Brad on the job. Not because he needs the help, but because he wants Brad’s company and by extent, whether or not he even realizes it, Nate wants this unnameable _thing_ between them. 

God help him, Brad wants it too.

Brad finally sits down, folding his legs underneath the shared table. He slides in, pressing his thigh accidentally-on-purpose against Nate’s. 

Nate jumps at the flush contact but quickly covers it by suggesting, “Christeson, the papers.”

They get down to business. Christeson breaks out the contract again and this time Brad signs his name handily. When he passes the pen over to Nate to co-sign, their hands brush and Brad feels the sensation linger long after they’ve separated. He’d feel like a right pillow-biter for even noticing, if it weren’t for Nate’s white-knuckled grip on the pen and the silhouette of him sucking on his lower lip, Nate’s profile backlit against the brightness of the window.

Brad eventually lets his gaze wander past Nate, eyes venturing outside where the desert landscape blurs past in shades of sand and ochre, the occasional shot of cactus striking through endless sky.

The hours slip by with equal velocity as they all bow their heads together, discussing the job they’ll execute once they’ve crossed the Oakland ferry into the biggest city in the West: San Francisco proper.

Brad doesn’t know how California’s gonna treat him this go-around, but when they cross the border, a silly wooden sign welcoming them to the Golden State all those miles up in the lush Sierra Nevadas, where the train keeps winding through green, green, and more green…Brad catches Nate peering at him from the corner of his eye. 

He smiles widely in response and while Nate doesn’t take the bait, his eyes crinkle at the sides and the corners of his lips curl up. 

Nate goes back to his newspaper and Brad settles into his seat, letting his head fall back on the padding. Closes his eyes, rests his shoulder against Nate’s. It’s comfortable, and every time Nate shakes out the paper or flips the page, Brad can feel the movement in his bones.

Yeah, he doesn’t know how the Golden State’s gonna pan out this time. Doesn't know whether he’ll sift out fortune or dirt out there in San Francisco. But despite the multitude of things that can go wrong, and likely _will_ go wrong on a dangerous mission like theirs...in the end, Brad’s got a good feeling about this.

He falls asleep there, head lolling on Nate's shoulder. And when Brad's jostled out of a dream—the details of which he doesn't remember—the train's stopped, its iron armor settling into the wooden tracks with loud hisses and pops.

"Come on, Marshal," Nate says, elbowing Brad in the side. "Wake up. We're here."

 

**END**


End file.
